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Chapter 22
Jet
“It’s a whole different experience swinging a hammer, eh, bro? Not exactly that rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle you’re used to.”
Jet lifted his head at his brother’s words. Troy, being a contractor, had volunteered his services to build the set for the annual Living Nativity scene that was due to be unveiled that evening. Being Jet’s brother, he’d volunteered Jet’s services, as well.
He’d gone along with no argument. He didn’t mind the work. In fact, he kind of liked giving back to the community and getting into the Christmas activities.
What he didn’t love, however, was the constant ribbing from Troy and all the guys on the crew about how soft he probably was.
Jet gave Troy’s shoulder a friendly punch. “What is it with everyone using the phrase ‘rock ‘n’ roll’ to describe something being decadent or edgy? That phrase is so old. It’s the furthest thing from edgy.”
“You calling me old?” Troy joked good-naturedly.
“Hey. If the hammer fits, nail it. Or whatever the construction version of that saying would be.”
With that, Jet went back to nailing planks in place to form the frame of the manger, to the soundtrack of laughter from Troy and some of the other guys.
He liked this camaraderie. It reminded him of the earliest days of Valentine, when the band had been traveling around from gig to gig in nothing but an old Econoline van that had to house all five of them and their gear.
Before egos had gotten in the way. Fuck, dude, be honest, he admonished himself. Before your damn psychological downward spiral got in the way.
He wished he had it all to do over again. He’d do so many things differently. He could trace the timeline of how everything fell apart, in the band and in his life.
Although he wouldn’t take one hundred percent of the responsibility for the destruction of his band, now that he was taking a brutally honest internal inventory, he could see that he should take more than ninety.
Every single turning point– every single fucking one– could be traced back to a shitty decision he’d made. In most cases, a string of shitty decisions.
He hammered the last nail into the frame and stood back to admire his handiwork. Deep satisfaction filled him. There was something innately satisfying about building something with his own two hands, building it from scratch, and having it stand tall and strong in front of him.
And he saw the metaphor, too. For this frame to stand up and stand strong, each board needed to be strong. Each nail had to be firmly driven into place. No shortcuts. Cutting corners was what made it all fall apart.
He’d popped his head into his little sister’s room to say goodnight a few evenings ago, and saw that she had a small postcard taped to the corner of her mirror. In a modern typography design that incorporated alternating block letter and brush stroke fonts, it said, “There are NO shortcuts. Success and satisfaction come from doing the work.”
Shit. His thirteen–year-old sister had life more figured out than he did.
Troy stepped over and stood next to him, surveying the frame. He clapped his hand on Jet’s shoulder. “Good work, man. Now come help me with the overhang.”
As Jet worked with Troy on hammering boards into place on the shelter that the holy family and animals would stand under, he thought he’d take a shot on grabbing some brotherly advice. He and Troy seemed to be in a pretty okay place at the moment, so what did he have to lose?
“Hey, Troy,” he said, making it sound casual. “Can I ask you something?”
“Yeah.”
Neither of them moved their eyes from the task they were working on, which Jet liked. It made the conversation easier. He continued, “So, Rome…you know, from my band…he wants to get coffee next week while he’s in town.”
Troy nodded. Jet waited for him to speak, but when he didn’t, he asked, “What do you think?”
Troy glanced over at him. “About getting coffee?”
Jet laughed. “No. I already agreed to get the coffee. I meant, what do you think about the band getting back in touch?”
Troy continued working for a moment, then said, “Do you know what it’s about?”
“He didn’t say.”
Troy heaved a deep sigh. “I don’t know, Jet. I hate to be a killjoy, but I don’t love it.”
