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George:We combed the car. I think we found what may have been your phone. I’m sorry, man. It melted to something near the engine.
Fuck!
George:Seriously, I’m glad you’re alive. I’m relieved I didn’t see the wreckage before I knew you were okay.
George:The police let me take what was in your glove box and center console. I have it when you’re ready. The front storage area got messed up when they got you out. I can go back if you remember anything else we need to search for.
George:I’m talking to myself at this point, but I’ll be by to see you soon. Wanted you to have time to get settled and into a routine.
George:Low priority, but your endorsements are still in place. I don’t know what that looks like moving forward, but for now, no one’s pulled their contracts. I know about IR. We can handle it all when you’re ready. Hit me up when things get settled.
Something in me should care that I didn’t lose everything in one fell swoop. I may have lost my ability to play, to run, to stand without pain. I may have lost everything I’ve worked for.
But all I care about is the phone.
I rear back to throw this one, but just before I release it, I stop. It’s not from lack of anger. It’s not because I care about the money. It’s because I’d have to bend over to pick it up. At some point anyway, and the idea of that is too much of a risk. Pop is gone. No one is coming to save me.
If I hit the floor, with no phone, I’ll have to wait for a wellness check before anyone finds me. So I set the phone down on the makeshift nightstand and open the top drawer.
I know these are for pain. But the mental anguish is too much. I need the relief. I need to numb my body and my mind. My heart is another story, but my mind—fuck. Anything to slow down the constant torment in my head…
One tablet and only a few minutes to wait for sweet oblivion.
I must be feeling the effects because I reach for my phone when it lights up.
Pop:You didn’t have to spring for first class, but a man could get used to this. See you soon.
A retired rancher with usually muddy boots in first class. The man could always afford first class, but never did. He’d choose an old work truck before a new SUV every time.
I know I must feel fine because I open the family group text thread and don’t read a single message before typing out a new one
Me:Pop is heading home. Thanks for letting me impose.
I flip the phone upside down and remember I forgot to turn off the lights again. I’d care, but waking dreams wash over me.
No pain.
No worry.
No mental gymnastics.
Absolute bliss of nothingness.
* * *
I can’t tell how many days go by like this. Two days a week, deliveries show at the door. Sometimes I wonder where they come from. Mostly, I don’t care.
The food is tasteless which is very unlike Mrs. Turner. I probably should get with her or have my nutritionist do that so the food is edible again. She’s always had a way of adding flavor and keeping it interesting. I mean, at least, as interesting as chicken breasts can be.
To be honest, I don’t know that I care. I know I should, but Cheez-Its taste good. I’ve eaten enough chicken breasts to be okay never seeing another one again.
Besides, I don’t need to train. I can pretend it’s the off-season.
Every day is off-season for me now.
The blackness around that thought has morphed since I got home from the hospital. It’s still depressing as fuck, but the edges are more muted. I hate my fucked-up has-been life, but I don’t have the energy to keep up that level of fire.
It’s too much work, and I just can’t be bothered.
