Chapter 2

So here's Chapter 2. The plot begins to develop and we discover more about our main character, Eric. I'm moving through Ch. 3 right now, so real, honest criticism is appreciated, needed, and desired. Email, tweet, text, whatever you prefer, me your thoughts. Thanks for reading.

Edit: Preferred criticism accepts minor grammar, spelling, and word play mistakes. Look for plot continuity, character descriptions, confusing explanations, and overall "readability". However, as always, any and all thoughts/critiques are welcome and appreciated.

--

Chapter 2

There were no “ifs” or “one days” any more. Eric had quit his job to pursue his dream, and was now unemployed, with rent coming due in a week. This was what he had been warning himself of for months: the idea that he could be a successful writer would come with a cost. This was a very real cost with very real consequences. And yet, to some degree, those costs did not matter in the least, because Eric was free.

Freedom brought an even bigger problem: what to do with it. Scholars have and will struggle for years with the definition of “freedom.” They will scratch their heads over the idea of “liberty”,
and what it means to be free.

Tabasco, now he’s free. I see him running over freshly dewed grass and patches of dirt or rock without a care in the world. He knows that someone is going to clean him up. I see him peeing by that tree or pooping on that sidewalk because he knows that it will get cleaned up. Or, perhaps it’s that Tabasco has never had to worry about it being picked up, and so really he doesn’t think about it at all.

These were the thoughts filling Eric’s head on the day after he quit his job. He had taken a large poop on his life, and now someone had to clean it up and spray it with Lysol, so that it would smell good again.

On that particular morning, Eric looked around his neighborhood from the surprisingly poignant view of his front lawn, and noticed the previously unnoticed. It seemed like a cliché to Eric, but it really was true what “they” said: the colors were brighter, and the world’s soundtrack was now on high volume around him. His dog returned to his leg and waited patiently for the cue to return to the house. Eric did not walk back to the house. No, instead he summoned Tabasco to the back of his Jeep Grand Cherokee, and then loaded himself into the driver’s seat. He had second thoughts, ran to the front door, opened it, and then shut and locked it.

The coffee pot’s on.

So, he unlocked the door, jogged toward the coffee pot, and turned it off.

I’m really tired from last night, damn insomnia. How comfortable would that couch feel…

So, Eric strutted over to the couch, took the cushions off, and tossed them out of his back door, onto the wet grass. Now they were wet, soggy, and outside.

Not comfortable anymore. Get the hell out of this town for once in your life.

From the backyard, he could hear Tabasco barking out front. So, Eric Dunbar locked the back door of his house, and did not return.

--

Tabasco’s tail had not been this still in 5 years. It was always moving in some way, and never rested for more than a few seconds. He was a hyper dog by nature, and had only calmed down in the last few years. In 2006 when Eric decided he wanted a companion to kick off his newly acquired bachelorhood with, he inquired down at the local animal shelter about a calm, easily manageable dog that a single male guy could take care of around a full-time job. The young, distracted girl at the counter that morning must have had an incredibly sarcastic sense of humor.

Or she had a problem with his haircut.

These were the only two explanations Eric could come up with that night as he watched a scruffy, small dog terrorize his living room with a ferocity far outweighing Tabasco’s 20 pounds. Eric had to smile in spite of the situation, and imagine the wry smile that must have parted the young girl’s lips as he walked naively out of the shelter with, what was at the time, a calm dog. As the crazed canine jotted toward him with a piece of his loafer in his mouth, expecting some sort of reward for fetching properly, Eric thought back to that morning, when Tabasco was sitting patiently in the back of the kennel, almost scoffing at all of the other typically-hyper-dogs ready for adoption.

Eric was reminded of the first time he saw Tabasco as he watched his faithful, loving dog for the last time. Eric was standing in line with Tabasco, unleashed, at the animal shelter in Portland. Tabasco did not look sad or anxious, but more stoic. Eric Dunbar was not seeing things, nor did he believe that a domestic dog was capable of feeling, much less displaying, complicated human emotions. And yet, Tabasco was doing just that.

“I’m sorry. I..I just am, Tabasco,” Eric breathed with an exhausted sigh. “IT’s time for me to move on, ok buddy? I know you can’t understand me right now, and that you’re going to absolutely hate me for leaving, but I have to take that leap. And you can’t come with me. No, Tabasco you just can’t come with me today.”

Eric was tearing up. Tabasco’s tail quivered with anticipation on the words “go” and “me”. These words triggered Tabasco’s normal response to the popular phrases, “do you wanna go on a walk” and “come with me.” And Eric knew it. He fought back a tear, and began to draw attention to them in the busy Portland Animal Shelter as he bent down, put Tabasco’s front legs on his shoulders, and embraced him. He tugged at his best friend’s furry neck and managed a tearful laugh as his dog licked his cheek. Tabasco was saying, “goodbye" to Eric.

The volume was turned up, the windows down. Eric’s head was back in Portland, but his Grand Cherokee was on I-78 in southeast Oregon, heading to Whoknows, USA. He missed his dog, but he knew he would miss the unknown more if he turned around now. Tabasco was probably not frantically scratching at the door, wondering why the tall man who has let him out everyday for the past 5 years to poop on the grass was not there today.

Probably.

The minutes thinking about Tabasco turned into miles left behind him, helped along by Eric’s diverse, yet equally popular-filled music collection. His hands beating along on the steering wheel, left foot tapping near the brake pedal, Eric scanned the road back and forth as he sang as loud, and badly, as possible, not a care in the world.

Except all of them.

During the break between each song, Eric had no job, was hundreds of miles from his safe, comfortable bed, and had just given away his best friend. However, once the hypnotizing down beats started rattling his cheap speakers, Eric was lost in the world of the lyrics, not a care in the world. It was incredibly cliché, but Eric became lost in the music. The high, melodramatic voices of Phoenix, MGMT, Passion Pit, and even a little Dave Matthews became laden in the cloth interior of Eric’s Jeep. He burned through three CD’s before the 1000 mile mark, switching to radio in every substantial town he came to in order to get a little local culture.

The first stop he made, other than a gas station in the middle of Oregon off of Interstate 84, was at the Idaho welcome station. Normally, he would have just passed on into the potato state, given the courtesy two honks, and moseyed on down the road. Today, however, he was leaving his home state of six years, and Eric thought it fitting to stop and see what all the fuss was about. Why was everyone telling him to get out? Why was his “positional” elsewhere? What, exactly, the hell was wrong with Oregon?

--

“That’s why I’m asking you,” Eric exasperated one last time. This welcome center employee was surely making less than minimum wage, because her job certainly reflected that.
“Listen, I am simply inquiring as to the most basic of facts about your fine state here, and you seem hell-beant on underwhelming me with ‘I’m not sure’ and ‘I wasn’t told about that’. Just give me a damn answer as to what is so great about the state I just drove over 350 mile to be in!”

The poor girl stammered. Eric knew he was being unfair and unkind, but this was his reaction to realizing that maybe he should not have left, after all. Sure, he had doubted his decision hundreds of times since the day before, but now he was truly regretting it, and Mandy from Cute Town, Idaho wasn’t helping.

“I..I…I’m terribly sorry, sir.”

“Don’t call me that”, Eric almost snarled. He was dangerously close to being rude. Being rude to innocent, stupid as they may be, but innocent nonetheless, people was one of his pet peeves.

“I just mean…I’m not that much older than you. I know you’re trying to be polite, Mandy, but you can just reply. You don’t have to put the traditional formal address on the end of each of your sentences.” Now, Eric was being a smart-ass.

“Well sir, if you’re asking me to recite facts about Idaho, then yes, I can do that. But that’s not what you want now, is it?”

Good Lord, this girl has figured me out within three minutes of conversation. How’s that possible, Eric frantically thought. No one was supposed to know about his journey South. Not even Mandy, the cashier at the Idaho Welcome Station on I-84 East.

“You called me sir again. I guess I can live with this ironic rudeness if you’ll help me out with this map.”

Eric plopped down an old, musty map on the counter, haphazardly pushing aside the brochure holder and the phone book. He unfolded it to show the entire Pacific Northwest, and jabbed an impatient finger at the state line, messily tracing the route of I-84 East, down through Idaho and into Utah. Mandy nodded along nervously as he mumbled out towns he intended to pass through, ones that also showed up on the map.

He looked up at his audience upon reaching the Salt Flats of Utah, slightly off track. He had always wanted to go there, ever since his boyhood fantasies of fast super cars turned into an honest study of them.

There. How do I get there?

“There,” Eric said out loud, finger still covering the Salt Flats, “I want to go there.”

The door dinged, and in walked a road-hardened trucker with salted sweat stains on the brim of his cap and down the sleeves of his denim long-sleeve. He was on a mission, and that mission included at business-only conversation with the help at the desk: whether that be a old man named Earl, minding his business as well as the lobby of the center, or a cute young thing named Mandy.

“Well ‘cuse me, miss, but I need to borrow your phone and the yellow pages, got a sorta important call that’s ten minutes past due.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Mandy said, almost too sarcastically, with a wry smile at Eric, “but the phone is restricted to employee use. I can offer you the phone book, but I’m afraid we have no public telephone for free. Pay phones just there behind you,” and Mandy motioned with a nod and flip of her dirty blond hair.

This girl was not ditzy nor dumb. Lazy, yes. Immaturely unmotivated for her job? Probably so. But not dumb.

The gentle smile quickly faded from the trucker’s face, and he whipped his upper lip before continuing. “Now look here, young lady. I don’t intend to pay for this call. This is important business, something that you wouldn’t understand at your age,”

Mandy scowled, obviously offended, and fired, “I’m 23 years old. I’m quite sure that I can understand and handle any little problem that may cause you the need of this phone so badly.”

“Do not interrupt me, ma’am,” the trucker thundered with an abandon clearly fit of his situation. He didn’t give a damn who he upset, or who heard him get upset; he needed that phone. He continued, “I’m a citizen of this country, and I’m passing through your otherwise-fine state here to get north: to get home. I need to use your phone right now, or I really will get rude. Now please.”

Eric’s mind processed a several different things at once. If the trucker was going to become violent, which seemed unlikely but nevertheless, Eric would be expected to act. Gender roles and the absurdity of “manliness” in general flashed across the screen in his mind, and he brushed them away with an almost-laugh. He sized up the trucker: dirty, sweaty, and unkempt on top of a 6’2”, 215 pound frame, with enough tension built up to support the Golden Gate Bridge. Eric’s eyes then flashed to Mandy, and saw her anticipation, her anxiety.

Eric started forward, “Listen man, I don’t know why you need this phone so badly, but this has gotten way out of hand. There’s just no need to make a big deal out of this. Mandy? I’m quite sure an exception could be made in such extenuating circumstances?”

Mandy quickly looked up from the counter where she had been fighting back the tears of embarrassment, that two men would come to insults and arguments over a minor problem concerning her. She caught Eric’s pleading eyes, eyes that told her to let this one go. Those eyes looked past Mandy the Help Center desk clerk and found Mandy, the 23 year old struggling college student, working part-time days and nights trying to fund her junior college classes where she was studying for bigger and brighter things. Somehow, this entire episode just was not worth it any more.

“Alright then, make it quick please sir. Dial “9” to get out,” and with that, Mandy slid the black office phone set across the counter practically onto the truck driver’s outstretched hand. He yanked the receiver up with a scalding glance at the both of them, and then proceeded with his ever-so-important call.

Eric needed to get back to the road with the map. Mandy had to catch up on visit reports for the week. However, neither could look away from each other as they each listened intently to the truck driver’s call. Truth was, neither of them had the right nor the time to listen to the truck drive’s urgent call. Well, actually, Eric had all of the time in the world; he was free. They just had to know.

Then, right as the ring tone could be heard through the speaker of the hand set, Eric realized that the truck driver would have to inform the call receiver as to the identity of the caller…

“Hey, sweetie? It’s Mack. I just wanted to check in one last time?”

Mandy gave Eric a sympathetic nod in the direction of Mack. She was noticing the same thing that he was, the longer Mack talked.

“Oh yea? That’s what the doctor said? Ok, well baby I’ll be there in just a few hours, but you be sure to tell our little Kayla to wait until her dad can get there,” he finished with a smile. “Ok. Ok then dear. Bye….love you too.”

Eric knew what he heard, and he knew that this was not a shocking scene, that expecting fathers called their wives everyday on their way to the hospital. However, one of these men was one step from getting violent over a phone only five minutes ago. It was sobering to find out that this man was capable of love, and probably a little bit of fear as he listened to his wife’s updates on the fast approaching birth of their child. Witnessing this scene of raw emotions erased Eric’s previous view of Mack. After all, what was the point of a first impression that started off like that?

“Is, uh…is everything alright there? Mack?” Eric accented the truck driver’s name, feeling weird knowing it before Mack himself had privileged the room to that information. It was almost as if Eric had stolen Mack’s identity. He was using his name without an introduction, almost without permission.

“You’re…you’re going to be a father? Well, congratulations. I’m….wow I feel like such a jerk about the phone now,” chimed in Mandy.

Mack rolled his eyes and gave a dismissal wave. “Don’t worry about it, darlin’. I’ll just be on my way now. Sorry for the trouble you two.”

Eric spoke up quickly as Mack’s work-hardened hands gripped the door of the welcome center, “Hey Mack!” The truck driver stopped, turned and looked at Eric with an expectant, almost annoyed look on his face.

“Yea?” Mack was ready to be on his way.

“Oh well, nothing really I just… I just wanted to introduce myself. Eric Dunbar.”

Mack the trucker gave a sad sigh, cocked his head back slightly, and answered, “Eric Dunbar huh? Well, it is lucky for you Eric that I now know your last name.”

“And why is that?” Eric asked suspiciously. Mack was giving off extremely unsettling vibes.

“Because now that I know your last name, I can’t shoot you,” Mack said, matter-of-factly.

Eric gave and awkward laugh of relief, and then watched in disbelieving horror as Mack reached under his shirt and produced the Colt six-shot revolver that his father had left him many years ago.

Mack pointed the gun two inches past Eric’s left ear, and fired as Mandy let out a scream that could wake the dead.

Behind him, Eric heard her groan in agony and slink to the cold, tiled floor.

Jouney to and from Insanity

A taste of my latest project: an actual honest-to-goodness novel. Not quite sure of the direction yet, but keep in mind it is the roughest of drafts - the majority of which has been written post-midnight over the course of the last week. Characters, descriptions, plot will be edited and improved.

Enjoy.

Chapter One

The pitter-patter of his high performance running shoes echoed through the early-morning, misty streets. With each step, each breath, Eric’s mind became more alert and ready for the day. This was his nirvana. A black cat slinked across the driveway to his right and arched its back with a hiss as the intruder pitter-pattered by. The hum of the streetlights was one of the many reminders that he was up at an un-Godly hour: it was so dark out he had to wear reflective clothing to warn the stray car or two that he was not just part of the night.

As Eric rounded the last corner of his seven-mile run, catching a glimpse of his house, he quickened the pace. With each step he gained momentum until he was at an all-out sprint to the finish line that was a fresh pot of coffee and the morning paper. The sweat that had been beading up for the last two miles flew into the air to join the mist; Eric’s hair was now wiped back along the top of his head. Mail boxes flew by, but his mind began to slow down. This was the best part of his day, and he hadn’t even showered yet. The euphoria awaiting Eric’s muscles at his driveway would greet his hyperactive mind like a cold and hot front colliding: sending lightning bolts of sensation through his body, causing Eric to breathe and think deeply at the same time.

The pulsing tail of his panting dog was beating against Eric’s leg as he prepared the coffee. This was their routine. Tabasco stretched and explored the house while Eric ran, but was always ready to be let out just before Eric was available. They had been together for eight years: dog and bachelor. Eric had dated several women, none of whom had worked out, and Tabasco had been, well, more than a dog. Tabasco roamed the yard for unfortunate lame squirrels while Eric showered and shaved. He was then off to work after getting dressed and bringing Tabasco back in for the day. The dog would paw at the door, every day, when Eric left. It was fruitless, and they both knew it, but something in each of them longed for Tabasco’s objections to the daily “imprisonment”.

“Goooood morning Portland! It’s 7:35 on this glorious Thursday morning, and here is your weather update!”.

The disc jockey had been awake far too long, and was far too peppy for this early. Eric had run, showered, and drunk coffee, and was still not awake enough for this guy. He rolled the windows down and switched to a CD, MGMT’s Oracular Spectacular, to truly wake up. His purposely unkempt hair flapped happily in the breeze. This was his morning routine, and it had served Eric well. No surprises, no epic adventures or mishaps – just a man, his dog, and his job.

--

“Hey Dunbar! You lazy sack of crap do you have those sales numbers from last week yet or what?!

Eric half-jumped from his mid-afternoon nap and hastily wiped the sleep from his eyes, coughed his vocal chords awake, and looked up, replying “Oh um, yessir, they’re right here, I’m just in the process of finalizing…” he was cut short by the sight of Brian Bestfriend, and not Mr. Unreasonable Boss, who Eric was expecting.

“Oh damn, Brian! You scared the crap out of me,” Eric exclaimed as he fiddled with his hair, slightly shuddering with the remnants of nervousness.

“Eric, why do you always freak out with Boss comes by? You’ve been at this company for seven years and never slipped up! These reports won’t mean anything until the fall anyways. Relax dude.”

Brian gave Eric a friendly, slightly annoying punch on the arm and left. The two enjoyed playful, somewhat immature relationship at work that was comparable to two high school boys always trying to get each other in trouble. Except with Eric and Brian, the goal was to make the other “freak out” about getting in trouble. The truth was, Brian was much better at it than Eric, because the latter was very uptight about his job and following the rules.

Eric Dunbar was a sales consultant and marketing associate for the Portland Trailblazers. He was hired right out of college, where he had received a double major in Journalism and Marketing. He was putting his talents to surprisingly good use, being that this was his first job with a college degree. Eric led a small group in charge of researching and producing reports on ticket sales and fans’ response to various marketing techniques. Eric reported directly to the team’s Marketing Director, who was always under tremendous pressure from the owners to increase ticket sales.

Even with all of his success, Eric couldn’t get settled down, he couldn’t get comfortable enough to make a mistake without fear of being fired, even after six years of not being fired. He tried to explain it more to Brian that night at the bar.

“Ok first of all, let me stop you before you begin, Eric.” Brian looked down disappointingly at his hot wings and nursed a sip of his beer. “Why in the hell would you suggest these? I’ve had better food from my nephew who gets a little too serious with his Play-Doh.”

Eric rolled his eyes and retorted, “Look man, ok? I’m trying to get serious here for once. You’re my best friend at work, so can we actually talk about work for a second?” Eric came off a little more desperate than he wanted, but this really was serious. He had stayed up half the night worrying over whether or not this was truly his “career”, or if it was time for something new.

“Ok, ok,” eased Brian. He rested his hands knowingly on the table and gave Eric his full attention. “What’s wrong, man,” Brian asked.

“It’s just that I was already thinking about what Mr. Boss brought up today, and when he mentioned it, I really started freaking out,” Eric explained.

Brian stifled a laugh, the way one does when they’re trying to save another some embarrassment, and finished his beer. He looked up at Eric with almost comical eyes and urged him, “Look, that sexual harassment suit was months ago and I promise not to tell…”

“Oh shut the hell up will you grow up!?” And then Eric had to laugh. Brian knew how to lighten Eric’s mood, even before the somber tone had been set.
“No look, Brian, for real this time. I’m having second thoughts about my career, if you could even say I have one, and something you said today made me think.”

Saying it out loud was relieving. It was easing the stress on Eric of thinking over it and saying it repeatedly in his head for weeks. Eric was unhappy with his career path, and wanted, no, needed, another one.

Brian Bestfriend was a perfect friend for Eric Dunbar that night. He listened, chimed in when invited or to fill the silence, and paid for his friend’s tab after a long day. Even so, when Eric half-drunkenly stumbled in the door of his single-bedroom apartment that night and Brian’s cab pulled away, confusion and desperation sat in. Eric could not convince himself that he was just being foolish, nor could he summon up the courage to even entertain the idea of quitting his job. He went to bed that night with a glass of water, two ibuprofen, and a head full of ideas, dreams, and concerns.

--

“Mr. Harrison, I want to thank you for hiring me and supporting me for the last six years. It’s been an honor to work for you and this team, but I can no longer, in good conscience, come in to work under the assumption that I will do my job to the best of my ability.”

Eric used air quotes to emphasize the last phrase, and hoped they had not come off as sarcastic and disrespectful. They had.

“Well now Dunbar you must think you’re pretty special huh? You think you settled for this job,” Harrison jeered, imitating Eric’s air quotes, “and now after six LONG years, you’re just ready to up and leave, and go write the next great American novel, or some shit like that. Do I have that about right?”

Well, no, not exactly. Eric began to tune out Harrison’s rant and looked around the room. A CD case on the bookshelf flashed him back to a music festival in college. A rusty license plate mounted on the wall caused Eric to recall a particularly memorable road trip a few years back. Then, a journal on Walt Harrison’s desk caused the largest sensation of nostalgia yet. Eric could see short stories and essay’s he had written as a teenager. More memories, more vivid, almost tangible memories came from his passion for writing than anything else, even more than his...

“…family. A part of our family, Eric, is what we’ll be losing. Are you telling me you’re going to leave this company in this way to be some writer?” Walt finished his last sentence with a smirk, folded his arms like a child, and waited for Eric to reply to the monologue they both knew he had not been listening to.

Yet, Eric did something unexpected and, for once, risky.

“Yes sir. I’m quitting my job here with the Trailblazers to pursue my passion: writing. Look for me at Barnes and Noble.”

With that, Eric Dunbar took the first step toward the rest of his life. He turned around, had the strongest urge to apologize and beg for his job back, ignored that urge, and marched through the door. He did not waiver as he walked right by Unreasonable Boss, un-tucking his shirt and flipping Boss the bird (in his mind) as he did so. He could tell Brian’s office was empty before he reached it, so Eric sent him a text message saying only “outside, now” and preceded to the nearest exit, never once breaking stride or his poker face.

The breath of cool Portland air hit him like an Ali punch and caused the now-ex-marketing-associate to breathe deeply and launched him into an uncontrollable panic.

“I just quit my job. Holy shit, I just quit my job. With no prospects and very little money, I just walked out on six years without a second thought,” he said to the parking lot of BMW’s and Mercedes.

“Well good for you buddy. ‘Bout damn time.” There was Brian, standing just outside the door that Eric had just stormed out of, smiling from ear to ear.

To Ms. Lucas. RE: Grindin' for My State

The People's Professor, Whit Waide, returned to twitter today after 40 days off for lent to inform us fellow bookfarmers that his mantra, "Grindin' for My State", is under attack by a lawyer from Ole Miss, working for MSU. This is unacceptable, and the following email to said lawyer should explain why.


Ms. Lucas:

I must politely and humbly disagree with your intent to block Professor Waide from the production, distribution, and/or advertisement of his shirt "Grindin' For My State". Since his popularity on twitter rose last year due to his relation to and affection for Anthony Dixon, Whit Waide has been nothing short of a beacon of inspiration for this campus. He, along with Dan Mullen and Scott Stricklin, have helped to pull the Bulldawg nation out of the pit of despair that has surrounded our football team, and our state, for sometime. He has incessantly demanded the support of students and alumni everywhere, and has implored the bulldawg nation to get up on their feet and shout from the tops of every mountain their support of this University. And now, we must shout our support for Professor Waide. Anthony Dixon put into words what Professor Waide had struggled to define, yet had always believed, that Mississippians must stand up and Grind for their State in everything they do. The daily grind is something that every working person can appreciate: rising everyday, and doing something to work hard, whether it be for yourself, your family, or, in Whit Waide's case, for the State of Mississippi, and for the State University. Whit Waide encompasses everything that Mississippian's should be proud of, and to stand in the way of that at all is to stand in the way of Mississippi.

Poetry

Sometimes being just another brick in the wall isn’t so bad after all
Often times knowing what you’re doing is better than where you’re going
Because really, who needs a plan in life anyway? It’ll just blow away
Fitting in to your space, to your niche is perhaps the most important piece
To a life well spent, a life well lived, especially when there’s no more to give
And you can take flight, sigh your last, looking back with no regrets in on the past.

(So-called) Brothers

“But you can’t just leave your family, Chris!”
“I can when they aren’t my family anymore, Evan!”

There was bite on the last word. He said it with such a scathing remorse, as if he was disgusted by the very nature of the word, as well as the person it represented.

“Look, you’re my brother....I’m, I’m your brother….Chris we’re brothers, damnit!”
“It’s just…it’s just not working anymore, ok? I have the right to choose, and I’m choosing not to be your brother anymore.”

Chris was right. Under the new laws, any family member could break away, could just up and leave, and be legally considered a member of another family. Emotions be damned, consequences expected, thousands of people were already walking out on their families. It was as if it was the season, or something. He had been waiting, Evan knew. Chris had been waiting for a way out of living with Evan, of being around Evan. Well, Chris provided the answer. Chris provided the answer for the dilemma for not wanting to live with him.

Chris just left.

Chris took Evan's brother with him. His best friend was gone.

Time thief

On a cozy, secluded hill in North Carolina sits a pine tree, tall and majestic. The sun beats down upon it's needles, baking them and arousing their sweet, intoxicating aroma. Gather a hundred of them together and you'd swear you were in your grandmother's kitchen on pie day. Let your eyes follow down from the needles, over the pine cones and through the jagged roadways of uneven bark and sap. Follow the trunk as it widens toward the nurturing earth, and find a young man sitting among the roots. His sandy-golden locks flutter to and fro, seemingly dancing with the coastal wind. It's warm this time of the year, but not so strong as to disturb and peaceful sit atop the hill.

Notice the young man long enough, and you will catch him glancing at his watch, each time with a more concerned look upon his bronzed face. He's doing so in the manner of a man waiting on his date for the evening, worried that they'll miss the show or their dinner reservations. The young man is not worried about the cause of the loss of time, but rather the fact that it is being lost at all. Yet, he remains, as calmly as he can, against the trunk of the tree.

The heavy silence of the hill is broken with a crisp, shrill shriek. Someone is in trouble, and the young man has lept to his feet and is 3 yards away before you have even processed the sound. No, no it couldn't have been a troubled shriek, because now there is laughter. It was one of shock, yet pleasant surprise. The young man has noticed this as well, as his pace has slowed, and a relieved smile has spread across his lips.

His son is bounding up the hill, trying to run away from the evil monster, Mommy. Their playful sounds now light up the hill, and the air is alive with the energy of love. Pure, unadulterated, family love.

The time thief was a line at the port-a-potty down the hill, near the parking lot. The young family had escaped the routine of the suburbs for the day for some peace and quiet. Yet, the call of the nature must be answered, just not always in nature.

And so there they romped. Around and around the great pine they played, joyously chasing each other with no clear intent other than to exhaust themselves. Soon, it would be time for a nap. But now ... now was the time.... just the time.

Basement Masquerade.

Unknown to her, there Dale sat, all alone, in the basement of his parent's house. A dying flashlight laid strewn carelessly to his right on the cold, hard concrete floor. His shoes had been tossed about in front of his position, and his bare feet brushed almost casually amongst the dirt and dead bugs. Dale's disheveled hair gave away his prior position: head in hands, light tears streaming down his face, trying to rub the "sissiness" out of his eyes.

His father would be so proud.

Lauren had not come over that night with the intention of breaking his heart. However with her swift and embarrasses departure, so went his feelings for her, and for love in general. The caller ID does not lie, and when that phone sounded, so crisp and truthful in the dark of the basement, the pain of their past came rushing back to the present. His name popped up. He was not supposed to be listed in the contacts list in the fist place. When Dale answered soundlessly, Lauren's "ex"-boyfriend asked when she was coming over - expecting to hear his love affair's voice on the other end.

Instead what he got was a loud explosion of heart break and anger, followed by the sound of a breaking phone - and heart.

Lauren had nothing to say. She swiftly scurried to the exit as gracefully as she could, almost tripping on her dress from Mardi Gras Masquerade. They had been in the basement on a scavenger hunt after he party.

Well, they certainly didn't find what they were looking for.