In Pieces
Short Story ~ 1700 Words
The three of us were sitting on the hood of Johnny’s ’68 blue Camaro, arguing over whether or not the Rolling Stones still “had it” – they did, no question. It was mid-September, a sunny Friday after school, and we were busy drinking a few beers before the football game at our usual spot: the farm lane that led to the pond and the forest beyond.
It was the best place to go because we knew we wouldn’t run into anybody – maybe Mr. Miller on his tractor, but the worst thing that’d ever come of that was a tip of the hat and a smirk. He probably used to do the same shit when he was in high school. Plus, he knew as soon as he set foot in his house later that night he’d be cracking a cold one, too.
Johnny had some Stones playing from the new stereo he’d installed last weekend. He said his old man had helped him out some with it, but all three of us knew his old man was a drunk and could barely function in society, let alone have the wherewithal to help his son with something productive. I knew that the installed stereo was all Johnny. At seventeen, the kid had an affinity for mechanics – he practically ran the auto body shop he worked at – and he was an architect when it came to anything remotely related to cars.
“You guys want to see the new setup?” Johnny asked us as he slid off the hood.
Dom rolled his eyes because the question was more a statement, but we both followed suit anyway.
Johnny popped the hood, tinkered for a bit, then tried to show Dom and me the “souped-up” engine that he had more or less built and installed on his own.
The problem was that Dom was a major burnout (we all were, in a way) and I was too busy filling my head with stories and poetry to give a damn. Dom and I nodded and went along with whatever the hell he said, but I soon realized that I wasn’t immersed in his world of oil-stained fingers, pistons, and alternators. Music is what solidified our bond, our friendship, but I knew it wasn’t strong enough to sustain us forever.
It was right around that time when Johnny’s phone rang and he stepped out from under the hood. Dom grinned at me, pulled out a wad from his pocket, and rolled a blunt on the roof of the car. I leaned beside him, took a sip of my beer, and nodded along to “Shattered” – a hell of a song.
That’s when I caught it: concern, worry, panic. All in Johnny’s voice, all at once.
“What?” was all he could get out before he slumped to the ground. He leaned forward, hunched like he had been shot in the stomach. The phone was on the ground at this point, and both of his hands were folded awkwardly below his abdomen as if he was collecting a pool of blood.
I set my drink down and scooted down next to him. Dom took the other side.
Before either one of us said anything, Johnny pushed himself up off the ground and stomped on his cell phone. He did it again and again, over and over. Within a minute, the device was battered into a thousand pieces – nothing more than plastic and glass. Nothing at all.
“What happened?” I asked, still seated.
But I don’t think Johnny heard me. He had a faraway look in his eyes.
“What can we do, man?”
“You can get the fuck out of here,” he said. He slammed the hood shut and pounded it with closed fists, denting his life’s work in several places.
I stood cautiously. Dom made his way to the passenger side door, reached in through the open window, and muted the music. But the silence was much louder than anything else imaginable. I felt everything around me: the dust in the country air, the wind, the sweat collecting on my brow. The lukewarm beer churned inside of me. I heard my heart.
Johnny walked off for a minute, pulling at his hair. Tears pooled up in his eyes.
“Chris,” Dom whispered to me. “What do we do?”
I didn’t know what to say to him. Nothing? Ride it out? Try to talk to him? I shrugged.
“Something’s up, man. Something happened,” Dom said, stating the obvious.
“What do you think?” I asked.
It was his turn to shrug.
Johnny walked toward us with a head full of steam. He had a panicked look to him, the way his eyes were all wide. His chest rose and fell in quick bursts, almost to the point of hyperventilation.
“What is it?” Dom asked. “What happened, Johnny?”
He pushed past us to the car and reached into the glove compartment.
When he pulled out the gun, I put a hand on his shoulder.
“Whoa,” I said. His knuckles were bloody, purple, and swollen. “We’ve got to talk.”
He backed away. His breathing steadied as if the gun in his hand calmed him. “Don’t come after me.” Before either one of us responded, Johnny took off down the lane toward the pond, a trail of dust behind him.
“Call the police,” I said to Dom, then bolted.
“Johnny!”
I don’t know how many times I called his name as I raced after him. He was a hell of a runner. When the pond came into view, Johnny skirted right around it and ducked into the woods.
“Johnny!” I yelled again. My lungs burned, but I pressed on into the forest. Streaks of sunlight guided me.
After I followed him through the thickest part of the pines, he stopped in a small clearing and put his hands on his knees – the gun still clutched in his hand. I don’t know how I managed to keep up with him. Adrenaline, maybe.
As we both panted, I’ll never forget the way we just looked at each other. We must have looked into each other’s eyes for an entire minute, not really knowing what to do or what to say.
Life doesn’t prepare you for moments like these. There’s no good way to go about it, no correct approach – no signs pointing you in the right direction.
Johnny pressed the barrel of the gun to his temple and cried. “I can’t do it, man. I can’t go on without him.”
I took a step forward and held my hands out before me, palms facing him. I knew he wouldn’t shoot me, but I knew he was seconds away from going somewhere else.
“I care about you. More than you know, my friend. Talk to me.” When he didn’t say anything, I continued. “You know I’m here for you. I’ve just got to know, man. Tell me what’s going on.”
Johnny’s hand trembled. His whole body shook. My skin crawled.
“It’s my dad…he’s gone.”
If it was possible, he shook worse – hell, the ground we stood on seemed to tremble beneath us.
I knew there was nothing I could say that would set it right, so I walked toward him. He gripped the weapon tighter. In my mind, I saw his index finger flinch as he blasted himself into the pines, into oblivion.
I put my arms around him and wrapped him in a tight embrace. He wept – he simply wept. He buried his face into my chest and pulled me closer. I felt the gun’s cool steel on the back of my neck, but I knew I was safe. His tears seeped into my shirt.
The two of us remained there a while – half an hour, maybe. We were the only ones in the world, nestled in that little clearing in the thick forest of pines. Johnny handed over the gun, then told me what he knew. His father dozed off at the wheel on his way home from work and collided head-on with a Mack Truck. He died on impact. Johnny didn’t mention whether or not alcohol was involved, but we both knew that alcohol was always involved. His father rarely came home sober. The bar was a routine pit-stop.
When we finally left, we heard muffled shouts through the trees. We didn’t respond. We just followed the voices until we found Dom and the local sheriff.
After I handed the gun over, the four of us walked out of the woods, past the pond, and back to the Camaro.
Sometimes shit blindsides you like this and there’s nothing you can do about it. Johnny and his dad were close, despite his shortcomings. Family is family, and losing family hurts like hell.
Before the sheriff drove us all to the station, Johnny looked me dead in the eye.
He didn’t say anything. Instead, he patted my shoulder and gripped it for a second. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down.
I think I knew what he meant, but couldn’t find it in me to say anything. I bit my lip and almost bawled.
The rest of September blurred past – October, too – and Johnny went in his own direction. We don’t talk anymore, but that’s okay. Maybe he associates me with his father’s death, or maybe, deep down, he knows things would never be the same between us – could never be the same. And I get that. Death has the power to do just about anything.
Sometimes I wake in the middle of the night in a torrent of sweat, heart pounding, having just returned from the clearing in the forest with Johnny. As guitars scream in the background and cymbals crash in a violent, ethereal crescendo, he pulls the trigger. I don’t know why these dreams keep occurring, or what else I could possibly gain from the experience. Maybe the dreams are, collectively, a gentle reminder that things could have ended very differently that day – or maybe someone’s trying to tell me something from beyond the grave.
Whatever the cause, whatever the case, I can find some solace in knowing that when I pass by Johnny’s locker every day, it’s still his.
My apologies — I bent the rules a bit today and included a longer story. I won’t do this too often. I found this old story from my vault of saved files dating back four or five years. I don’t remember exactly when this was written, but I thought it compelling enough to share. (It was also kind of fun for me to dig through some old stories…I highly recommend you do this if you haven’t in a while!)
As always, thanks for reading!