| General Fiction posted March 14, 2024 |
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Laying a friend to rest
He Knows Now
by Wayne Fowler
“Jason could argue the coat off a weatherman in a snowstorm.”
I turned to my long-time friend, Tom. “He could that. I learned never to be the first to make a declarative statement.”
Tom turned to me chuckling. “C’mon, Junior. Let’s go get a drink.”
It never failed to strike me as odd that my pipsqueak friend, Tom, called me Junior. I was six years his senior, and goin’ on a hundred pounds and four inches bigger. We met in college. I was a senior, Tom was a sophomore. I was the starting tight end. He was the up-and-coming linebacker. The age difference was compounded by my military service – three years in the Corps. Then college and football.
Jason, deceased, a forty-four-year-old victim of suicide-by-car-meets-tree wreck, was one of the team’s student managers. We called him Waterboy. The police listed it as an accident. We knew better. Sure, he’d been sleep-deprived, but we knew.
The graveside service was over and the dozen, or so, of us weathering the chill, stood around paying last respects to Waterboy’s parents and wife. I got my wife’s attention and nodded toward Tom. She understood. Her subtle finger-pointing and nod cautioned me to drink moderately, be careful, and to be home in less than an hour. I was happy to oblige.
At the bar, Tom had slugged back his Jack and took four or five quick sips of the draft chaser. After guzzling the top half of my Bud-Light, showing camaradery, I determined to sip the rest. I owed it to Debbie, as well as myself.
“Guess he knows the truth now,” Tom said before sloppily emptying the mug.
The bartender set two more beers in front of us without being asked. That one would be my second in ten years. I decided to nurse it.
“Remember how he argued all the way back from the LSU game? Arguing that we’d won?”
I smiled. This story always made it into our conversations, even when Jason was with us.
“He claimed that the center cheated, moving the ball a foot when they were second and ten. That foot gave ‘em the first down. Then eight plays later their touchdown was by half a foot!”
I nodded, letting the conversation wane. Tom signaled for another Jack Daniels. I held out my hand for his car keys, holding it there until he finally coughed ‘em up.
Tom’s voice was a half-pitch higher than normal. “Last time I was with Jason, he was complaining about Amanda, how she just didn’t understand men. She wanted him to go to church with her. He brought over a couple steaks and we watched the game, instead.”
Tom slugged back his whiskey. “Gonna miss him,” he said, trailing off all whiny.
I’ll admit to wiping tears, not saying anything for fear of choking up. Jason was a good guy, a good friend. He loved his wife, but was having problems. My opinion was that he had too many back-to-back concussions, most undiagnosed from when he was a player.
He’d lost his job, and his manhood. He told me that some months ago. I started to tackle the foam of the second beer but set it back down.
“Least he kept his insurance up. He told me,” I said.
Tom nodded, his beer running down the sides of his mouth as he did.
“He would’ve made sure of that before slammin’ a tree,” Tom said.
Before he could order another Jack, I got up. “C’mon. Debbie has a meatloaf waiting for us. And I have a recliner you can use. I just have to stuff pillows around so you can fit in it.” That was a standing joke, kinda like him calling me Junior. He smiled, though his eyes didn’t.
“Jason knows the truth now,” he said as he wobbled from the booth.
I figured that he’d been drinking and not sleeping from when he first learned that his best friend had killed himself.
“He knows the truth now,” Tom slurred.
“Ain’t no dead unbelievers,” I replied.
Tom jerked his head to me, his eyes locking on mine. “Junior? When I sober up. ‘Mind me to call Amanda an’ ‘pologize. I was steerin' Jason wrong every chance I could.”
I nodded.
“Jason could argue the coat off a weatherman in a snowstorm.”
I turned to my long-time friend, Tom. “He could that. I learned never to be the first to make a declarative statement.”
Tom turned to me chuckling. “C’mon, Junior. Let’s go get a drink.”
It never failed to strike me as odd that my pipsqueak friend, Tom, called me Junior. I was six years his senior, and goin’ on a hundred pounds and four inches bigger. We met in college. I was a senior, Tom was a sophomore. I was the starting tight end. He was the up-and-coming linebacker. The age difference was compounded by my military service – three years in the Corps. Then college and football.
Jason, deceased, a forty-four-year-old victim of suicide-by-car-meets-tree wreck, was one of the team’s student managers. We called him Waterboy. The police listed it as an accident. We knew better. Sure, he’d been sleep-deprived, but we knew.
The graveside service was over and the dozen, or so, of us weathering the chill, stood around paying last respects to Waterboy’s parents and wife. I got my wife’s attention and nodded toward Tom. She understood. Her subtle finger-pointing and nod cautioned me to drink moderately, be careful, and to be home in less than an hour. I was happy to oblige.
At the bar, Tom had slugged back his Jack and took four or five quick sips of the draft chaser. After guzzling the top half of my Bud-Light, showing camaradery, I determined to sip the rest. I owed it to Debbie, as well as myself.
“Guess he knows the truth now,” Tom said before sloppily emptying the mug.
The bartender set two more beers in front of us without being asked. That one would be my second in ten years. I decided to nurse it.
“Remember how he argued all the way back from the LSU game? Arguing that we’d won?”
I smiled. This story always made it into our conversations, even when Jason was with us.
“He claimed that the center cheated, moving the ball a foot when they were second and ten. That foot gave ‘em the first down. Then eight plays later their touchdown was by half a foot!”
I nodded, letting the conversation wane. Tom signaled for another Jack Daniels. I held out my hand for his car keys, holding it there until he finally coughed ‘em up.
Tom’s voice was a half-pitch higher than normal. “Last time I was with Jason, he was complaining about Amanda, how she just didn’t understand men. She wanted him to go to church with her. He brought over a couple steaks and we watched the game, instead.”
Tom slugged back his whiskey. “Gonna miss him,” he said, trailing off all whiny.
I’ll admit to wiping tears, not saying anything for fear of choking up. Jason was a good guy, a good friend. He loved his wife, but was having problems. My opinion was that he had too many back-to-back concussions, most undiagnosed from when he was a player.
He’d lost his job, and his manhood. He told me that some months ago. I started to tackle the foam of the second beer but set it back down.
“Least he kept his insurance up. He told me,” I said.
Tom nodded, his beer running down the sides of his mouth as he did.
“He would’ve made sure of that before slammin’ a tree,” Tom said.
Before he could order another Jack, I got up. “C’mon. Debbie has a meatloaf waiting for us. And I have a recliner you can use. I just have to stuff pillows around so you can fit in it.” That was a standing joke, kinda like him calling me Junior. He smiled, though his eyes didn’t.
“Jason knows the truth now,” he said as he wobbled from the booth.
I figured that he’d been drinking and not sleeping from when he first learned that his best friend had killed himself.
“He knows the truth now,” Tom slurred.
“Ain’t no dead unbelievers,” I replied.
Tom jerked his head to me, his eyes locking on mine. “Junior? When I sober up. ‘Mind me to call Amanda an’ ‘pologize. I was steerin' Jason wrong every chance I could.”
I nodded.
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