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1
Raleigh
At ten years old, I had two ambitions in life: becoming a famous magician and driving a fire truck.
My priorities have changed somewhat over the years—even my best friend, Cas, doesn’t know about my deep and abiding love for David Blaine—but I still wanted to sit in that truck. And today, for the first time in my life, I shut out all the fears and doubts and worry about what others might have thought, and I just freaking went for it.
“So you’re saying you want to be a firefighter now, is that it?” says Cas at the bar later that night.
“Of course not,” I say. “That’s not the point.”
“Gonna have to run that by me again, then, Raleigh,” he says, setting his empty bottle at the far edge of the bar and nodding at the bartender.
Our town holds a Big Truck Day a couple of times a year, mainly geared toward educating kids on fire prevention and safety, but a big chunk of the community usually turns out and makes a day of it. They bring out a fire engine for people to explore and there are firefighters all over the place, posing for photo ops and raising money for the department. The salt-and-pepper-haired firefighter who’d been minding the engine when I approached him this afternoon had been deeply amused when I climbed out of the cab grinning like a fool. Probably because the smile on my face matched that of the kids around me. What can I say? Their energy is contagious.
Life is pretty good. I have a good relationship with my parents, who are still married and seem to be happy about it. My siblings and I get along fine. I have friends. Well, I have Casimir, who’s the best friend any guy could ask for. But even that long list of good things sheds light on what I don’t have. A career. Major life goals. A girlfriend. Not even a sex life.
Basically, my entire life could be summed up in one tiny, ugly word: timid. I’ve been timid.
“It just felt like I could,” I say, trying to explain the high I’d gotten just from sitting in that truck. “Like, since I finally made that happen, I could do anything in the world,” I finished, feeling lame but not lame enough to diminish the rush of victory. My inner-child self is still Snoopy dancing.
I may not be the most self-aware guy, but I’m not delusional. I’ll never be running into burning buildings or savings cats from trees or be anybody’s hero on the five o’clock news. But after today… if I can get myself into a fire truck after all these years, then maybe there’s nothing I can’t do. Maybe I have been timid—ugh, I hate that word—but that doesn’t mean I have to stay that way.
“I think I get it,” says Cas, accepting his new beer from the bartender with another nod. “You went after something you wanted, albeit something you wanted in the fourth grade, and you got it, despite the perceived obstacles. I can see how that might get you off.”
“It didn’t.” I sigh. “I think I just need some momentum, you know? I need to find other things, like the fire truck. Little things I want.”
Cas hums. “Little things, huh?” He tilts his head toward the small stage at the other end of the bar. “What about that?”
There’s a guy setting up a computer on a table next to the stage.
Fuck me. Karaoke night. I’d forgotten. Based on the gleam in Cas’s eye, that bastard picked this place for exactly that reason.
“You’re out of your mind if you think I’m getting anywhere near that stage.”
Cas just shrugs and doesn’t call me on it when I change the subject.
An hour later, it’s a different story.
“No.” I have to lean in to shout in Cas’s ear so he can hear me over an impressive rendition of “River Deep, Mountain High.”
“Come on,” says Cas. “You’re better than this guy.”
“Am not.”
“Don’t be a pussy,” yells Cas. The music stops immediately after he says it, the lucky bastard. That’s Cas to a T—luckiest bastard I ever met.
“Rude,” I say in normal tones, once the applause dies down and we can talk like humans again. The bar isn’t huge, but they take karaoke night seriously here.
“You said you’re trying new things,” says Cas, poking me in the arm with his beer in hand and nearly spilling his drink in the process. “‘Pushing boundaries,’ ‘being brave.’ That’s what you said.” He pokes me again.
“Yeah, but—”
“Do you like singing?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Are you good at singing?”
