A Pact For Life Read online

  This book was influenced by

  the music of The National.

  And one specific lyric from Rilo Kiley

  A Gray Shirt Press Book

  Published by Gray Shirt Press, LLC

  155 Jackson St. #12 Denver, CO 80206

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design: Jeff Haney & Matt Graham

  Cover illustration: Jeff Haney

  Book Design: Matt Graham

  Copyright © 2012 by Matt Graham

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights unless it's for a noble cause. Purchase only authorized editions.

  The GRAY SHIRT PRESS logo is a trademark of Gray Shirt Press, LLC.

  ISBN 978-1-938859-10-6

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  October 2012

  Contents

  BATTLING WITH A WHITE FLAG

  THE LONELY RED HEAD

  A PACT FORMED BY THE STARS, THE MOON, AND THE DRINK

  INSTINCTS

  A TEST OF FAITH

  CONSCIOUS AND STABLE

  A SERIES OF HAPPY MOMENTS

  A RELATIVE PROBLEM

  IT’S NOT A CHEMICAL IMBALANCE IF THE SCALE WAS ORIGINALLY BROKEN

  THE LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL

  A PLAN, WE MUST DEVISE

  THE WAR ON CHRISTMAS

  LIKE THE PENNY TRAY AT A GAS STATION, THIS WAS A SERIES OF GIVES AND TAKES INVOLVING UTTERLY MEANINGLESS ITEMS

  PROTECTION

  THE THIRD LAW OF MOTION. i.e. EQUAL AND OPPOSITE REACTIONS

  TRIALS

  ALL'S RIGHT WITH THE WORLD

  CALE DAWKINS SINGS THE BLUES

  FAMILY DINNERS

  YOU SUCK

  BLASPHEMATIC THERAPY

  CALE DAWKINS VS. THE DIVINE

  THE LONELY RED HEAD II

  UNTRADITIONAL

  AN EPILOGUE OF SORTS

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  For Sarah Edwards,

  out of all the uppity gay men I know,

  you're the only one who's actually a woman.

  BATTLING WITH A WHITE FLAG

  Things didn't begin with a bang per-se, but rather the dull thud of Cale Dawkin's head crashing onto the cold, wooden, bar floor. He had been tackled from his blindside, but it wasn't an ambush. To label it an ambush would imply he wasn't expecting the attack.

  On the ground, Cale had no time to react as three men jumped on top of him and started to swing wildly. As he dodged their blows as best he could, two questions flashed in his mind:

  1.) She's worth this?

  2.) This is my life?1

  The first question occurred when he looked over at the visibly distraught blond girl who served as the catalyst for the three men attacking Cale. The second question however stemmed much deeper than meaningless flirtation, blindsided tackles, and copious amounts of alcohol. Okay, maybe it had a little to do with alcohol.

  Despite his best efforts at dodging, two punches landed successfully. They hurt like all holy hell, but when the third landed, it felt... alright. The pain was so focused and contained that it diminished all of the other problems in Cale's life.

  Another punch arrived, and Cale welcomed it with an ambivalent grin that would've served as an unspoken, “fuck you” if the fight wasn't so chaotic and the bar so dark. This punch turned Cale's nose from a perfectly equal shape into what optimists would call a greater-than sign. However, to Cale, the distorted reflection in the metallic base of the bar stool looked nothing but lesser-than.

  That punch would be the final attack as the pile of men grew lighter until Cale found himself alone on his back staring up at ever-dimming lights caused by an ever-swelling face.

  He sat up and watched as his three attackers were carried away by bouncers who had the same disinterested look as those construction workers who hold the stop and slow signs. The most ravenous of the attackers, a man with spiky black hair and a tan more orange than bronze, shouted through the bouncer's grip, “I'll kill you if you even look at my fiancée again, motherfucker!”

  Before Cale got the chance to antagonize him further, a Hispanic girl who looked like she lived without ever suppressing an emotion broke through the crowd and screamed, “Fiancée!? You told me your wife died you asshole!” And with her running charge toward the men, the once bored look of the bouncers disappeared as a new and unusual emergency presented itself.

  Cale paid little attention to this latest development as he got to his feet and dusted away remnants of the bar floor from his gray t-shirt, jeans, and brown hair. With a closed lip smile and a tip of a nonexistent hat toward the still distraught looking blond girl, Cale finished his gin, dumped the ice into a napkin, and decided to call it a night.

  As he walked outside into the crisp autumn night holding the napkin of ice over his nose, he noticed the fiery Hispanic girl sitting alone on the curb with her face in her hands. Despite just leaving the blond at the bar, Cale couldn’t escape the call to be chivalrous.

  With a natural flair like he had done it countless times before, Cale pulled out a pen and scribbled something onto his bar receipt. When he reached the girl, he politely said while folding the receipt in half, “Don't get discouraged, beautiful.”

  Before she had the chance to respond, he handed her the slip of paper and walked away as a familiar question played on repeat.

  This is my life?

  “What the hell happened in there, Cale?!” A stoned Brian Fitzgerald yelled at his friend half a block away.

  Cale looked back and saw Brian and his other friend, Nick McCallagh trying to catch up. His friend's pace was absurdly slow thanks to Nick, who had his cell phone in one hand and a cane in the other. It was near impossible for him to walk without either item.

  As his friends finally caught up to him, Brian announced, “There was all this yelling, and the next thing I know, you're walking out with a nose that looks like a Van Gogh painting.”

  “You mean Picasso,” Cale corrected.

  “Whatever, you're the artist, not me.” Brian slurred. “I saw you do your little note thing again to that girl on the curb. So what did it say this time?”

  Cale half-said, half-sang, “Your heart's full of liquor and me and everyone else are just ice in a glass.”

  Nick bit his lip for a second before giving an answer in the form of a question, “Billy Joel?”

  “Nope, The National's You've Done It Again Virginia. Guess it stuck with me from the walk to the bar.”

  Nick tapped on his cell phone and started to read, “The National is a Brooklyn-based indie rock band...”

  Brian interrupted, “We don't need Wikipedia's help on this one, Nick.”

  “Brooklyn, eh? I didn't know that,” Cale admitted as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He ran his thumb over the tops of the cigarettes until he found the one he was looking for - the glass one. It didn't contain tobacco, but high quality marijuana.

  For this was Denver, Colorado. The Mile High City. A slogan which over time has grown into multiple meanings. There are more marijuana dispensaries than Starbucks. More breweries than McDonalds. Bar crawl clubs compete like rival gangs, and every bike has a holder for beer. The Mile High City may be a slogan to outsiders, but its residents know it really means a state of mind.

  There was a flick of a lighter, and Cale quickly inhaled and exhaled.
He didn't want to get stoned, just slightly light. He passed the glass piece to Nick who did the same short toke. He had to drive after all.

  Brian declined due to a personal philosophy against mixing drugs. In his life he had done more drugs than Cale and Nick combined, and knew precisely how to be safe while getting extremely fucked up. He was also more intelligent than the other two combined, so maybe he was on to something?

  As Cale put the glass piece back in the pack, Brian asked him, “So why don't you listen to music that people our age grew up with?”

  Cale turned serious for a moment. “It will be a cold day in hell before I listen to U2.” A grin came across his face as he said, “But if it makes you feel any better, I'll give the next girl some Biggie lyrics.”

  Cale put his arms around Nick and Brian and pontificated in a way that was only possible from someone drunk, slightly high, and bloody. “What girl wouldn't be turned on by a strange guy giving them the note, When I see the semen, I'm leavin', Cause bitches be schemin'?”

  Brian responded, “With the way your face is looking, it won't matter what you tell these girls. Maybe you should make sure they are single the next time you are looking for a screw.”

  “What happened back at the bar wasn't about getting laid. I was trying to save both of those girls from that douche bag. It's something my dad always stressed. You know, help out damsels in distress and all that other gentlemanly stuff. I couldn't just come out and tell those girls what an ass that guy was. Shoot the messenger, and I didn't want to get hurt.”

  Nick gave a sideways glance at Cale’s battered face and plainly said, “You're bleeding.”

  “A few cuts and bruises are nothing. It's my own fault anyways. I didn't protect myself or fight back because...” Cale felt embarrassed to admit this. “The pain felt good.”

  Brian ignored Cale's confession with a confession of his own. “Even though I don't know how much help I would've been, I'm sorry I wasn't there to back you up.”

  Nick felt that he should explain himself as well. “I'm sorry too, Cale. I was distracted by this interesting Wiki article about Tetraneutrons. Simply put, they exist without any reason whatsoever, and somehow are able to stay together when physics dictates they should be thrown into chaos. Their existence disobeys the laws of physics!”

  Typical of what often happens when people are in one constant state, everything becomes related to their mood. With a beaten chuckle at the comparison of Tetraneutrons and his life, Cale said, “Maybe they are staying together because they aren't sure what else to do?”

  “Huh?”

  “Sorry, it's nothing.” Cale's phone began to ring. Seeing the appearance of an unfamiliar number, he knew it belonged to the blond girl from the bar. He ignored it and continued to speak. “You guys shouldn't feel bad about missing the fight. Actually, I feel a lot better now than I did earlier tonight.”

  Nick asked, “What was wrong earlier?”

  “It's hard to describe,” Cale responded.

  “An art thing?” Brian guessed.

  “Yeah,” Cale wasn't sure how well he could explain his problem to his friends. “I guess the straightest way to say this is I've run out of ideas for sculptures. The inspiration isn't there anymore.”

  Brian questioned, “How hard is it to find inspiration? I mean, just take some drugs, walk around in the woods, and voila, there's your inspiration.”

  Cale responded, “It doesn't work like that. I need God's help with this.”

  Sculpting, or any creative pursuit for that matter, relies a lot on faith. It's a belief that whatever your chosen pursuit is, an idea will come along that will feel right, powerful, and true. Creativity can't be manufactured in a lab and placed in convenient pill form. It's otherworldly. For creators of any stripe, there is always faith that a great idea will come, whether through your own hard work, or in Cale's case, something divine.

  A quick note on Cale's God: Like most educated people who like to think about God, Cale saw the natural fallacies with organized religion. The Gods in most religions were too aimed toward blind obedience and keeping the population in line through fire and brimstone. They were all powerful yet demanded constant sacrifices and praise. Cale's God, however, was nothing more than a silent friend who used to provide ideas for sculptures.

  Those sculptures, by the way, had made Cale one of the most popular sculptors in the modern era, but that's not as prestigious as it sounds. A famous artist in today's age is about two notches below 'celebrity blogger' on the worldwide notoriety scale.

  Cale's answer about needing God's help threw Brian into a slurred rant. “Man, that talk just pisses me off. Whatever happened to not knowing the mind of God? Whatever happened to simply following His word? Why is it that God never calls anyone to live humbly and meekly and help those around them? How come he never tells people to eschew earthly riches and glory and pride and move to Africa to help poor starving people?

  “No, now everybody is fucking Noah! Everybody has a direct line on exactly what He wants for them, and surprise! It's wealth, fame, and power!

  "Maybe I'll go sit in some bar and suddenly claim that God wants something much more from me. I'll feel God calling to me, 'Brian' he'll say, 'Brian, I want you to look around. Do you see that girl on the other side of the room? She's lost, Brian, just like you. Go to her, Brian. Go to her and together you shall find your way. Go to her Brian, and fuck her brains out. And in the glory of that joining, you two shall find your salvation.'”

  Cale and Nick stopped walking, stared at Brian, and then busted out laughing.

  “You know I'm right!” Brian yelled.

  Nick patted him on the back and said, “No more drugs for you tonight. Let's go home. You wanna ride, Cale?”

  “That’s alright. I gotta go to Diana’s. She got promoted today, and I promised her we would celebrate.” Cale pulled out the pack of cigarettes, but this time picked one filled with tobacco. He lit it and spoke while it was still in his mouth. “Besides, it's like a fifteen minute walk and I can use the fresh air.”

  Surprised, Nick said, “I had no idea you guys were back together. Tell her congrats for me.”

  “We aren't back together, but I promised her when we first started dating that I would make the night she became a partner a memorable one.”

  With a plan to meet the next day for coffee, the three men parted ways. By his third step, Cale had his headphones on in need for a walking soundtrack, and did the only other thing he could at that moment; obey the laws of physics.

  THE LONELY RED HEAD

  Downtown, Diana Young sat in the corner of a crowded party that was being held in her honor. She was the youngest person to ever make partner at JCPG, Denver's most prestigious law firm. Yeah, it was a serious promotion.

  In a tight black dress that went perfectly with her long, dark red hair, Diana would've looked beautiful in that corner if she only smiled. She was incapable of a smile though. That was simply asking way too much, given her mood.

  Earlier in the night, before she found her way into the corner, she was full of energy as congratulations poured in from clients she only knew professionally, colleagues she only knew professionally, and interns she didn't even know existed. Eventually the praise turned into actual conversation, which was easy enough as the clients talked about the work they needed from Diana, colleagues talked about the work that needed Diana's expertise, and interns reverted to their invisible nature and simply listened. However, an hour or so after the first glass of alcohol arrived, Diana found herself slowly being driven away from the conversations. It was brought upon by her clients talking about their families, her colleagues talking about their families, and the interns talking about their hook-ups.

  The more Diana drank, the less she knew what to talk about. If she couldn't talk about work, she was lost. That initial enthusiasm dulled with each glass of wine, and thus, she ended up in the corner.

  As she debated the earliest time she could leave her own party without se
eming rude to her clients, a confident looking intern sat down next to her bringing with him an invisible cloud that smelled of black licorice and aerosol cologne. With unfocused eyes and an infantile smile, he used the pet name every moderately attractive redhead hears at least once in their lives. ”Looking hot tonight, Red. Want a drink?”

  At that moment, Diana wondered if she was a good enough lawyer that she could get herself acquitted of throwing him out the window. Sadly, she realized the devastating consequences second degree murder would inflict on her quickly growing career, and thus, a new plan was needed. While thinking about possible actions, she asked, “Do you work here?”

  “Yeah babe. Just started. My name's Jamie.”

  This was all she needed to hear as it meant she could do what came natural - unrelenting work demands communicated in a sharp tongue. “Well Jamie, I don't want a drink, but here is something I would like from you.” Jamie nodded and smiled wide in expectation. “I have this client, Pinwheel Construction, and what I need from you is to index every capital lease contract for them along with amortization schedules and a cash flow projection for the next five years, and I need it by the time I get in Monday morning.”

  For the first time, the intern's eyes focused on who he was hitting on, and he immediately realized his mistake. This was no ordinary woman, but a fabled monster he heard about from every intern, paralegal, and assistant. Its name was, 'Frightana Young' and it’s broken more lives than anything found in Lochness, the Himalayas, and Transylvania combined.