Finally In A Place

I sank down on the cot in the back room and flung my forearm across my eyes to block out the light. I was tempted to plug into my iPod and let some music carry me away, but then I’d miss it if my pager went off, which meant the other boys would bang down the door when a call came in, which meant I’d have to endure another month of “boy-band wannabe” jokes, and...most days, I wasn’t sure why I’d come back to White Horse, other than to escape Dad.

I’d considered calling Dad and ratting Bob out, telling Dad that little Bobby was running halfway around the world to essentially beat a dead horse. But calling Dad wouldn’t have been fair. If Bob wanted to chase down a wasted dream, that was his choice. I was done with dreams, anyway. Time to sleep.

Only maybe dreams weren’t done with me, because my phone was ringing. Clay had already busted up my shift, and I still had scratches all up my face and arms from the girl I’d been watching. White Horse was a boring enough town to induce suicide, but really. I groaned, heaved myself up, and scooped my cell phone up off the floor.

Bob was calling me back. He’d probably chickened out.

“Y’ello.”

“Dia duit. I need your opinion.” Bob sounded irritatingly cheerful, for someone who was about to grovel.

“Yes, you’re an idiot. Go back to Thailand before Clay freaks out and tells Dad, and yes, Carolyn is probably dead. Good-bye.”

“That’s not why I called, but at least I know you’re in an honest mood.” Bob actually laughed. Softly, but it was real laughter. When was the last time he’d laughed? “I’m going to put you on speaker, all right? Tell me what you think.”

What was going on? I sat up and rested my elbow on my knee, waited. I could hear a lot of noise in the background - Bob was somewhere crowded. The airport, maybe? And then I heard an old man, say,

“Shush! He’s playin’ fer his brother!”

Bob had never been the best guitarist. After me, Clay was the handiest with a guitar, but then he played the bass. Even Dan was good with a guitar with a pinch, but Bob...had been learning from Clay over in Thailand. Some of his transitions were sketchy, but his chords were solid.

“Well it took a little while to remember how to smile
It takes time to give it up when you love someone that much
But I’m finally in a place where I can think about your face
Without feeling the pain
Without missing you again...”

I blinked and sat up straighter, pressed the phone to my ear. In the main bunker, some of the other idiots were playing foosball, and loudly, so I pressed a hand to my other ear to block them out.

It sounded country, like we hadn’t sung since we were twelve, but - it was good. Immediately I felt ashamed for being surprised that my own brother was a decent songwriter, but I concentrated on the lyrics a little more.

The song ended, and cheers erupted in the background. I listened to Bob fumble with the phone, wondered what I could say.

“So...what are you going to say to Carolyn?”

“I don’t think it matters anymore,” Bob said.

I swallowed hard. “Are you and Clay coming home, then?”

“When this is done.”

Done. What did that mean? “It’s a good song, Bobby.”



“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks. I’ll call.”

“Ghráim tú."

“Slán.”

(598 words; lyrics unabashedly snitched from Two Bullet Parade's "This One's For You")