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A call to the treatment center revealed what I already knew. There were daily morning and afternoon meetings, seven days a week, 365 days a year. Praise the Lord and pass the wicker basket. I decided to send Jak a text and tell him the truth. He understood the importance of what I had to do, and we decided to meet for a late lunch afterward. After a quick shower and a wet ponytail I was on the elevator.
I got off the elevator and looked at my new bike. It was a relief to have the old one long gone. It reminded me of my mother each time I thought about it. It was really the last thing that tied us together, and being rid of it would truly allow me to live a life free of any thoughts or attachments to her. I pulled my helmet on and fired up the bike. The rumble from the 1690 cc motor was totally different than the 1340. This bike was just like me.
Bad ass.
The ride through mid-morning traffic was without incident, and within fifteen minutes I was at the treatment center. After exchanging niceties with the counselor, I flopped down at the almost empty table, set my helmet on the floor, and looked around the room.
Three, including me.
I looked at my watch. It would be fifteen more minutes before the fun began. I rolled my eyes, looked up at the ceiling, and began counting the ceiling tiles. Generally, simple math would satisfy me when computing the size of a room. Considering my level of interest in being there, I decided I would count them individually to waste a little more time. When I reached 107, a familiar voice caught my attention.
“Nice to see you back, Karter.”
I looked down from the ceiling.
Bill the bullshitter.
“Mornin’ Bill,” I sighed.
I leaned back in the chair and looked up at the ceiling.
Where was I?
Fuck, now I have to start over.
I saw the outline of Bill’s body as he got a cup of coffee and sat in the same seat he was sitting in the day we met for the first time. I considered the fact he was at my very first meeting, he didn’t attend any of the other meetings during my treatment, and now he had returned for my random assed unscheduled meeting. I began to wonder if he was following me. Not in a necessarily paranoid manner, but in a what the fuck is the deal with this dude manner. I stopped counting ceiling tiles at tile number 143, and shifted my gaze to Bill.
“So, Bill. Did you ever remember the name of the nineteen-year-old boy you slaughtered?”
He looked up from his cup of coffee and across the table. His eyes were filled with sorrow. Real sorrow. He nodded his head slowly and his lips began quiver as he started to speak.
“As a matter of fact, I did. It’s been a tough week for me. It’s why I’m here. I didn’t rightly want to end up drunk again, so I decided it’d be better to come here and talk about it,” he said softly.
I stared at him and began to feel sorry for him. But, without a name, it was still bullshit.
“What was his name?” I asked.
With a shaking hand, he lifted the coffee cup to his mouth and spoke over the top of the cup, “Well, I can’t remember the last name, but I’m pretty sure I got the first. It was an odd one, just took some thinking to remember it.”
Still bullshit, dude.
“And?” I asked, beginning to feel annoyed.
“Anderson. His first name was Anderson.”
An immediate pain developed in my chest. My eyes welled with tears. I didn’t immediately understand what was happening, but after a moment, I came to the realization Jak’s father’s name was Anderson.
In my very first meeting, Bill said he had the wreck on June 6th, 1976.
Jak was born in 1976.
In January.
I pushed myself from the table and stood. My eyes were swollen and full of tears. I stared at Bill. Without speaking or remembering to grab my helmet, I stumbled to my bike, fired it up, and twisted the throttle as far as it would go.
And the wind against my face dried the many tears of pain from what I was afraid to be the truth.
