Chapter 1 – The Middle Finger

 

 

There’s only so much crap a person can pack into the back of a U-Haul, and Omar Watson is officially past the limit. Before him, boxes and boxes of memories are stacked to the ceiling, like a cheap cardboard city, threatening to topple down faster than his engagement to Monica. She dumped him about a month ago, and despite many bottles of liquor, many mouthfuls of joints, and many reassurances from friends, nothing feels right, and Omar is pretty sure nothing ever will again.

Omar grits his teeth and wipes his brow, taking one last look at what his consumerism is reduced to. How thirty years of life can be shoved away in boxes as if he were putting toys away in a daycare bin. What a cosmic joke. Then he sighs, reaches up and yanks the door down, revealing the Two Idiots and a Truck logo, taps the back of the truck, and sends his two idiots off with a half-hearted wave.

“See you in California,” Omar mutters before adding, “Don’t break my shit.”

The moving truck rumbles forward, kicking up gravel that, for some reason, kicks up memories. His breakup with his fiancée, Monica, flashes in his mind’s eye, sharp and unwelcome, like pigeon shit splattering on an unsuspecting bald head.

“I can’t keep fixing you,” Monica says with tears running down her face as she turns away. “…How can I expect you to love me when you can’t even love yourself?”

And to Omar, that’s what hurts the most. She’s right, of course—Monica is always right. He can’t love anyone because he can’t love himself. And you can hardly live life without love; it’s too long. It’s too treacherous. And frankly, it’s too damn lonely.

Omar shakes the memory off and jams his hand into his pocket, pulling out a crumpled plane ticket and studies the lettering. Only a few more hours, and he will officially leave Ohio behind. His mother’s dead. His father’s a deadbeat, and all his friends have settled down and forgotten all the memories they shared. So it’s off to the land where dreams come true, to get a fresh start where nobody knows his name. The kind of fresh start Omar needed, perhaps more than ever.

A cool breeze picks up, blowing leaves across the parking lot as Omar reaches behind his ear, produces a joint, lights it, and inhales long and slow, taking in the earthy, green taste. The smoke fills his lungs like a warm hug he hasn’t felt in weeks, but when he exhales, he feels emptier than before. After craning his head to get one last look at the movers pulling out of the apartment complex, he begins the slow walk to his empty apartment, rubbing the ticket in his hand as a strange car approaches in the distance.

“California’s gonna be different,” Omar mutters, convincing no one, least of all himself. “I’ll make sure of it,” he adds.

Suddenly, Omar hears the faint rattle of a car rolling to a stop and slows his pace. He’s on the sidewalk but feels heat pouring off the tires. He can’t tell if the car wants to hit him or the driver is blind, but the universe already ruined his life; now it’s sending someone in to finish the job. So he stands there, back turned—waiting for impact. But what hits him isn’t force. It’s the universe nudging his shoulder.

“What the hell are you doing?!” says the man defiantly from the window of the car.

Omar’s stomach drops as he hears the car door open and slam shut and bounce off the concrete.

“You’re standing there like a damn lunatic, you know. Like you wanted to be run over.”

Omar closes his eyes and exhales long and slow, back still turned. He knows who the voice is; he just didn’t expect to hear him. He throws his hands on his hips before pointing to the moving truck.

“Man, you better tell that truck to turn its ass around—they forgot to put my shit in there,” says the man as if he were personally offended.

Omar exhales, still not believing it’s his father. But when he turns, he sees Jasper standing beside his beat-up grey Honda Civic, suitcase in one hand, can of Coke in the other, sly grin cutting the uneasiness of his face. Omar’s hands fall to his side and he drops his plane ticket, not noticing it get caught in the wind.

Jasper’s face slowly fades from smile to concern.

“What? Ain’t you excited to see me? What’s it been? Five years? Six? And uhh… Omar… how come you’re not with those idiots too? You’re moving, right?”

Omar’s jaw clenches, and he lets out a nervous laugh and mutters, “You’ve gotta be shitting me,” loud enough for his father to hear before running a hand through his hair. Ten seconds pass.

“What? Are you just gonna stand there and wait for Cupid to hit you with an arrow?”

Omar looks down and sees his plane ticket blowing in the parking lot. He grunts and takes a few steps toward it but stops as it gets closer to his father.

“Dammit, Dad,” Omar fires back as his frustration boils over, his eyes darting from the plane ticket to his father.

“What… what are you doing here? How… how did you know where I live?”

Jasper lets out an uneasy laugh he hopes will disarm. “Shoot, man, you really think your father wouldn’t know where his son lives? What do you take me for?”

Omar’s lip curls. “Well, it’s news to me,” he says, finally getting a hold of his nerve.

Jasper scratches his chin and shrugs half-heartedly. “Well… I…ugh. Heard through the grapevine about you and Monica and the big move. Figured you might need some company on the drive out west. To be honest, I actually thought I just missed you.”

Omar’s eyebrows shoot up. “Drive? Company?”

Jasper nods toward his Civic. “Yeah, man. I’m thinking we hit the road together. It’ll be fun. Just like old times.”

Omar’s chest tightens like a gorilla is squeezing him around his ribs, and he looks away.

“Fun? Fun? You’ve got to be kidding me,” Omar says, taking a few steps forward.

Jasper raises an eyebrow, tapping his suitcase. “Does it look like I’m joking?” he says as he swings his suitcase forward.

Omar scoffs.

“No… it looks cheap,” says Omar, his hands pulling his thick curly hair as he starts pacing from the sidewalk to his apartment and back again. Then all at once he takes rushed quick steps toward his father with his hands waving up and down.

“I’m moving across the country, Dad. You can’t just— I… I have a plane ticket. I’m supposed to go… go to the airport… I… I have a plan.”

Jasper waves Omar’s objection away like it’s nothing and places his suitcase on the hood of his car. “Plan? It’s just money. I’ll pay for it. Forget the flight—hop in the car, we’ll drive and catch up with them movers. They’re driving like a bat out of hell; you better hope they don’t break your shit.”

Omar blinks slowly and shakes his head, hoping his father will disappear. Then he looks at his plane ticket, skidding across the concrete with the breeze. “Seriously, why… why are you here? What’s going on?”

Jasper’s grin falters for the briefest moment, his eyes softening. “You’re smart; there’s your answer. We haven’t spoken for years, you’re moving away, and I’m fixin’ to change that,” Jasper says as he picks up his suitcase and opens the passenger door expectantly as if he were some sort of bellhop.

Omar stares at Jasper like he just saw him step out of a UFO, too confused to move, but snaps out of it when Jasper coughs.

“So, what do you say? Come on, man, it’s not like you have any shit here,” Jasper says before adding, “I just watched it roll away.”

Omar quickly shakes his head and looks over to the side of his red brick apartment building, noticing a large stone. For a brief second, he wonders if someone dropped it high enough onto his head, maybe it would kill him. He then looks up and studies Jasper, really studies him for the first time since he showed up. The man looks familiar yet different, like time was ticking double for him. His face was slightly puffy yet sunken in a way like someone took a straw and sucked out life. His dark skin had gotten splotchy, his beard was now gray, and his eyes carried a gentle sadness with just a glimmer of hope. Yet he still held his suitcase tight against his body, to the point where his black knuckles turned white.

“Well… what do you say?” Jasper repeats.

Omar frowns as his attention moves from the suitcase into his eyes, where they look almost pleading. His stomach flutters, and he turns away, his gaze falling on his apartment once more. He then slowly turns to his father, his face undecided.

Omar wants to say no. He wants to laugh in his father’s face. He wants to slam the door shut and walk away without a second glance, like Jasper did to him all those years ago. But something weak in him—or maybe it’s curious—stops that. If he went with his father, he’d get answers, at least. His mind for some reason thinks of Monica. Misery does love company, after all, and Omar was feeling miserable.

“But what are you really doing here?” Omar asks, his voice now low, almost crying. “I… I want the truth.”

Jasper’s grin returns, this time with hope. But there’s something different now. Something off. Something almost sad. His voice takes on a solemn tone.

“To be honest with you, I’ve got some news I need to share with you, and it’s the kind of news you oughta tell someone in person,” Jasper says with a sigh. His voice drops, and he speaks slowly. “So, what do you say? We’ll be in California by the time your movers arrive, and if you’d like, after this, you’ll never have to see me again. Sound fair?”

Omar doesn’t reply. Instead, his eyes trace the lines on his father’s face—have they always been there? They then shift to the thinness in his frame—he looks like he must have lost fifty pounds, but he certainly didn’t exercise to do that; his skin was too flabby. He can’t quite place it, but something is definitely wrong. Omar throws his hands on his hips and exhales, looking down before taking one look at his apartment, then back to his father. His mind is telling him no, but his lips are mouthing…

“Fine,” Omar mutters, then points a finger at his father. “But I’m not doing this for you.” Omar pauses. “And we can’t be late; otherwise, I might lose my job.”

Jasper exhales sharply, relief spreading across his face. “That’s alright, I don’t need you to do it for me, and we’ll be on time—hell, early even. You know I drive fast.” He’s smiling as he walks to the back of his car and throws his suitcase in with a plop.

Omar almost lets himself laugh, but he can’t believe this shit.

“…Alright, fuck it,” says Omar as he sleepwalks to the car.

With a final glance at his ticket, and all his belongings already on the road, he hesitates for a moment before yanking open the passenger door and jumping in. The interior smells like stale cigarettes, fast food, and something medicinal that makes his nose wrinkle. Then he slumps into the passenger seat and attempts to get comfortable while his mind spins out of control.

Jasper hops in the driver’s seat, cracks open a new Coke with a satisfying hiss, and takes a long sip before tossing the can onto the back floor, where it clanks off other cans. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel like he’s playing a song only he can hear, then turns to Omar.

“Alright, let’s get this show on the road, huh? West Coast, here we come,” says Jasper.

“…Yeah…” says Omar with the enthusiasm of a fresh lobotomy. Jasper then turns the ignition, and the engine roars to life. The wheels crunch over the gravel as they pull away, and the apartment complex shrinks in the rearview mirror. Omar watches it grow smaller and smaller, disappearing behind them, just like everything else in his life.

 

They drive in silence for what feels like hours, and Omar now sits with his arms and legs crossed, making him appear like a human ‘X’ while his forehead rests on the passenger side window, seeing the Ohio countryside blow by in a constant blur. His eyes are dark, sleepless circles, and the unspoken tension of it all makes his head feel like a basketball in the hands of a highly skilled player. He is busy doing what he does best—tuning his father out—and deeply regretting letting him talk his way onto this trip. But no matter what he does, he can’t help but wonder what the news is that Jasper wants to… needs to share.
Omar closes his eyes and Monica’s last words echo in his head: “I can’t keep fixing you.” She was right. She was always right. But that didn’t make it hurt any less — it just made him race back to the moment when it all happened.

He was in Monica’s old Honda Civic about a month ago, cross-legged in the passenger seat, with the rain patting the window on a cold summer night. They were parked outside her apartment, engine off, wipers squeaking. The dashboard lights glowed green on her face, making her look like she was underwater, and she wouldn’t look at him. Instead she sat straight, hands in her lap, twisting the hem of her sweater.

“I can’t keep doing this, Omar,” she said, looking away.

Omar huffed. “Doing what?”

Monica flicked a tear off her cheek. “Fixing you. Waiting for you to figure out how to show up for yourself so you can finally show up for me.”

Omar laughed — short and bitter. “You sound like a self-help book. Can we go now? I have work tomorrow.”

Monica sighed and turned to him.

“Don’t you get it?” Her eyes were red. “How am I supposed to move forward? I don’t even know if you love me.”

Omar stared straight ahead and unclicked his seatbelt.

He opened his mouth to argue, but nothing came. Because she was right. She was always fucking right.

Rain tapped the roof in short soft beats. Monica reached for the keys in the ignition, then paused.

“I need space. Real space. Not this — existing around each other until one of us crashes.”

Omar stared at the glove compartment, at the little scratch she’d put there years ago.

“So that’s it? We’re done because I’m not happy enough for you?”

His hands slammed into his thighs.

“Don’t you know I hate my job? I only still have it to take care of you.”

“No.” Her voice cracked just once. “We’re done because I can’t be the only one fighting for it… And you’re never going to change.”

She started the engine. The heater kicked on, blasting warm air that smelled faintly of her vanilla lotion. She didn’t ask him to get out. She just drove slow and silent back to his place. When she pulled up to the curb she didn’t turn off the car.

“Take care of yourself, Omar,” she said. Not angry. Not pleading. Just final.

He got out without another word and stood on the sidewalk, unable to see her crying in the dark. The car was gone, but the smell of vanilla never left him.

Back in Jasper’s Civic, Omar blinks hard. The cornfields were still blurring, and Jasper glanced over. “You good, kid?”

Omar rubs his thumb over the cracked screen of his phone—Monica’s last photo still open, smiling at someone new. “Yeah,” he lied. “Just… thinking.”

Every few miles, Jasper looks like he is about to say something, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air, but no words come out. More than anything, Jasper wants to confess to Omar. To tell him why he joined the trip in the first place. To apologize for their rather inglorious breakup. To share his secret that he knows will change everything, especially his son’s life.

He keeps stealing glances at Omar, studying his profile, memorizing every detail like he’s trying to burn it into his brain as if for one final time. He is surprised Omar hasn’t commented on his decline, his shriveled appearance, his premature aging. Soon, he will have to tell him, but now, he’ll need to win his trust. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Jasper clears his throat.

“Thanks, Omar.”

Omar doesn’t even look up. “For what?”

“For letting me come on this trip. It… it means a lot.”

Omar shrugs, not bothering to hide his irritation. “Yeah. No problem,” he says flatly.

Jasper rolls down the window, letting the awkward tension blow out with the breeze.

“So, ugh… why California?”

Omar’s jaw tightens. “New job.”

Jasper, clearly trying to break the silence, presses on. “Doing…?”

“Work.”

Jasper tilts his head back, and his hands flick up.

“Never would have guessed,” he remarks dryly. “Can’t you get work here too?”

“Dad!” Omar snaps, sitting up straighter in his seat. “Just drop it, okay? You said you had something to tell me, stop beating around the bush and tell me. What is it that’s soooo important?”

Jasper sits back in his seat and glances at his suitcase. His hand moves toward it like he wants to touch it, then all at once jerks back like he got burned. “Yeah… I’m just waiting for the right time.”

Omar shakes his head. “When the hell is that going to be? Because time with you is a funny thing. It took you long enough to show your face.”

Jasper’s shoulders sag like someone just cut his puppet strings and he slumps over like he took a punch to the gut. “I’m sorry about that. Really, I am. You don’t know how bad I feel about that.”

Omar looks away.

“You’re right, I don’t.”

Jasper exhales and focuses on the road, and taps his steering wheel.

“Look, when we grab lunch, I’ll tell you there, okay? I’m just waiting for the right moment. Food might… no… will help.”

Omar grimaces, panic mixing with impatience blooming in his chest. “When do you want to stop?”

Jasper looks at the gas gauge and notices the needle, a hair’s length from E, like a ticking time bomb waiting to explode.

“Soon.”

“Okay…” says Omar, his mind still on Monica.

Jasper grits his teeth while his eyes dart back to the road as he wonders when in the hell they will find an exit. Just then, a blue sign appears like a dot on the horizon that must have come down from the heavens above:

BP Gas Station 2 miles

“About damn time,” Jasper mutters as he relaxes into his seat. “Alright, kid, we’re getting off here soon… real soon, and I’ll tell you what’s going on. I just gotta get past these—oh, what the fuck?”

A truck merges into the passing lane ahead of them, pacing the truck in the slow lane. To their right, a black Audi pulls alongside them, driven by a lady glued to her phone, while two more trucks pull up behind, officially boxing them in. Jasper sucks his lip, silently cursing the entire trucking industry. He steals a glance at the gas gauge again—this time it’s deep in the red, sending his pulse into overdrive as he reaches over and slaps Omar’s arm.

“Get her attention. She’s gotta let us over… we can’t miss this exit,” Jasper says, jabbing his finger toward the woman.

But Omar doesn’t move. Instead, he stares at the latest photo of his ex-fiancée on Instagram, wishing he was the new guy in her latest picture. Jasper turns and frowns, looking up from Omar to the lady.

“Come on, man! You ain’t gonna make the move without gas,” Jasper snaps, his eyes flicking between the mirror and the road ahead. “We’re boxed in.”

Omar’s shoulders slump and he looks up at the lady. Big, black sunglasses cover much of her face, making her look like a fly. Her head is tilted down, and she stares at her phone while driving seventy miles per hour, somehow managing to keep her car between the lines.

“She’s texting, and you can’t pass her? Have you tried using your blinker?” Omar deadpans.

Jasper squeezes the steering wheel. “Of course I did! What do you think, I can’t drive?… I drove here!” says Jasper, throwing his hands up. He flips on the blinker, but the Audi holds steady.

Jasper’s eyes dart to the gas gauge again, and he mutters under his breath before glancing over at the woman.

“Move the hell outta the way!” he shouts, hammering the horn.

Omar brings his hands to his ears and scowls. “She can’t hear you, you know.”

“It ain’t from a lack of trying!” Jasper erupts and wipes the sweat from his head. “She kind of reminds me of you,” he adds.

Omar shakes his head and returns to his phone and the picture.

About a thousand yards out, the exit ramp appears like an oasis in the desert with all the allure of freedom. Tasting salvation, Jasper taps the accelerator and takes a deep gulp as his eyes focus on his exit. It was time to pull a fast one on this bitch.

He presses his heel down till his foot feels the floor, and the car zooms forward, sending the men back into their seats with a whoosh. But no progress is made. Despite staring at her phone, the lady finds a way to block his exit and match his speed. And no matter what he does, he cannot shake her; she remains glued to his side like a logo on a shoe. As Jasper’s last morsel of patience burns out, that’s when it all happens.

Jasper’s nostrils flare. He slams down the automatic window button, shoves his son back into the seat, reaches out the window, and gives the lady the bird.

“Move the fuck over!” he shouts.

It is as American as Johnny Appleseed holding a firework while riding a bald eagle.

Jasper holds the middle finger triumphantly, ignoring the road and focusing on the lady, hoping she will get the message, not noticing the truck moving out of the way.

But when she finally cranes her neck and sees the middle finger, she does the most inconceivable thing. She smiles and waves, which has the effect of short-circuiting Jasper.

His jaw drops. His face twists. He looks as if he just saw a ghost, temporarily frozen with disbelief. Unfortunately, for Jasper and Omar, something directly ahead of them is much more menacing.

“Watch out!” Omar screams, throwing his hands over his face.

Standing smack dab in the middle of the road is a ten-point buck delivered from Karma herself. Jasper, still staring at the lady, doesn’t see it coming.

And he doesn’t have to. His other senses do the heavy lifting.

WHAM!

The impact hits at seventy miles per hour, sending shockwaves straight to his seat.

Glass shatters, and the sound cries out with sudden, deafening force.

Blood sprays across the windshield, mixing with the cool rush of outdoor air that slices through the open window.

Then all at once, the world flips upside down. The car rolls, and it crashes into a ditch, ending its momentum with a bone-rattling thud.

As the dust settles, Omar turns his head, his body aching from the crash. He takes one long, hard look at his father and at Monica’s cracked picture resting in his hand.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 2 The Briefcase

 

 

 

 

 

There’s always a moment where you know you fucked up, but you don’t want to accept it. So you distract yourself. You think of everything that could happen instead of everything that did happen. It’s a coping mechanism; a lie disguised as a thin layer of hope you’re dead set on making true. And hiding behind this thin layer of hope, Omar snaps out of it, the reality fading in, one wave of nausea at a time.

The world was spinning. Omar claws his way from beneath the shattered front passenger window, glass crunching under his palms. His fingers fumble for his glasses, the thin frames slipping and tilting as he shoves them onto his face. His mind reels, refusing to accept what just happened while simultaneously cataloging the damage.

What was once a reliable, run-of-the-mill Honda Civic looked as if it were in a monster truck jam—only it wasn’t the monster truck—it was the car that monster trucks run over, resembling a ball of tin foil ripe for the trash can.

The trail of destruction told the story. The shattered glass, the deer guts, and little pieces of plastic led a trail to a smoldering car carcass just past the bridge’s underpass. The worst part was, the deer, that damn deer, lay off in the distance, its head still gazing at the car, judging them even in death.

Behind him, the passenger door groans as Jasper falls out, his face hitting the dirt, sacrificing his body to protect his Coke. He stands slowly, dusting himself off and surveys the wreckage. Blood mixes with sweat, carving red tracks down his face as he stands facing the horizon, glaring.

“That fucking bitch!” Jasper screams while cracking a new Coke open. “Can you believe this shit!” He sticks his middle finger in the air and keels over coughing.

Omar takes it all in, his jaw locking as he narrows his eyes on Jasper.

“Dad… DAD! What were you thinking?!” Omar huffs, his voice rising. “Did you not fucking see it?”

Jasper’s head snaps back at Omar.

“WHAT…What do you think? Do you think I wanted to crash my car? Right here in the ass crack of America? You think I wanted that?” Jasper says with a frown. “Come on now, go easy on me, Omar; I didn’t bring any hemorrhoid cream!”

Omar clenches his fist.

“Damn it, Dad! Why would you insist on coming if you’re going to do this!” Omar screams, his eyes still watching the car wheel turn. “I had a fuckin’ plane ticket!”

Jasper shakes.

“Damn it!” Jasper yells before kicking a tire.

“I mean, really, Dad, is this what you wanted?”

Jasper bites his lip.

“Just shut up!”

Jasper reaches down, picks up a piece of glass, and throws it at the car. It bounces off with a pathetic ping.

“Sorry… are… are you okay?” he asks, his voice falling softer now.

Omar stares at him with dead eyes and shakes his head.

“Scratched but fine, and you?” Omar offers quickly, before turning away from Jasper.

“I got a fucking headache and a new hatred for deer. Good thing I got my Coke,” Jasper says right before spitting on the ground.

The Coke hisses as he cracks it open. Omar crosses his arms and stares at the can of Coke as if he were trying to disintegrate it with his eyes. Everything he hated about his father was distilled into this can of Coke.

Ever since Omar was a boy, he knew only one quality about his dad: To Jasper, every problem in life could be cured with a can of Coke.

Got a sore throat? Have a Coke. Scraped knee? Have a Coke. Your collarbone sticking out with blood spluttering, ruining your brand-new, whiter-than-snow dress shirt? Have a Coke. Want to ruin your only son’s fresh start? Have a fuckin’ Coke.

He could have been the company’s best spokesman—had he not been a salesperson for the Pepsi company. It was the great irony of his life. Jasper takes another sip and clenches his jaw.

“Ahh, forget it. Everything’s got an expiration date,” Jasper says ominously, shaking his head as he surveys the deer, or what was left of the deer, and the car, or what was left of the car. Jasper takes another sip and smiles.

Omar stares at the sky, gut twisting. He leans against the bridge’s support cylinder, his hand gripping his chest tightly. His breath catches, sharp and ragged, as he scans over the heap of metal.

Unfortunately, the only thing that stands out is the deer’s white eyeball, which seems to stare right through him, calling him a bastard. Because when you hit a deer on the highway, you’re a bastard. And if you’re Omar Watson, who grew up with a dad who was hardly home, you’re a bastard.

Omar shuts his eyes, trying to engage his other senses—listening to the wind, feeling the sun’s warmth on his skin, inhaling the earthy scent of the nearby grass—but nothing works. Instead, the world collapses in.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Omar thinks to himself, still focused on the eye. “My life wasn’t supposed to turn out this way,” he screams inside his head. He had it all planned out.

After the wedding was called off, Omar wanted an escape, he wanted a new adventure. So he thought about heading out west like the Cowboys did.

California was said to be the land of opportunity, the land where dreams come true. The land that had been so sung about, so written about, so seemingly special that it had to mean something, if not from sheer force alone. Omar wasn’t sure what, but he hoped it was true.

He needed to jumpstart his life. He needed help. He needed a fresh start. So, thoughtlessly, he applied for the first job he saw. A door-to-door knife salesman… the kind of job that would take anyone with a pulse. Fortunately for Omar, he had a pulse. He accepted the job without giving it much thought, renting another dream without actually dreaming. Because dreaming is scary, and Omar is scared.

And yet here he was – carless, fiancée-less, and rudderless – confronting the sober reality that this wasn’t a dream at all, just another nightmare… only it came before he could sleep.

“Ahhhh, that hits the spot!” Jasper burps as he crushes his can of Coke, ripping the tab off and stomping it to the ground. It was his signature move. He then looks over at his son, noticing his chest rising and falling, causing his eyes to wrinkle with concern.

“You alright?” says Jasper.

“Am I alright? Am I alright? My life is fuckin’ ruined… again!” Omar snaps and rubs his temples. He continues, “You should have never come on this trip!”

Jasper sighs, frowns, and kicks at a random pebble, sending it bouncing off the road.

“Unbelievable!” Jasper huffs and starts pacing. He then stops, turns, and points at Omar. “You… you… ain’t got nothin’ to worry about, son. Your whole life’s ahead of you. All your shit’s with the idiots; we’ll just go to the gas station and figure it out,” says Jasper, pointing to the nearby gas station. Suddenly, Jasper bursts out coughing and slowly sits down, while Omar watches on with a curled lip. He wants to step forward to see how his dad’s doing but instead he mouths.

“We can’t figure this out!”

Jasper exhales.

“Sure, you can. That’s what you do in life—you figure it out; everything is figureoutable. You just gotta take action, son.”

Omar kicks the gravel, jaw tight. “This can’t be figured out; even a genie in a bottle can’t figure this out, we’re completely fucked!”

Jasper bites his tongue then releases his frustration.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m the bad guy for wanting to help,” Jasper scoffs. “The bad guy for wanting to reconnect with his son who never calls.”

“You’re the bad guy for hitting that fuckin’ deer!” Omar retorts. “And you never called me!”

Jasper rolls his eyes.

“What’s that deer doing on the road anyway?! Didn’t he know cars are here? They don’t look like deers do they?” Jasper exhales deeply and regains his composure. Now, with his hands on his hips, his voice softens. “Can you help me grab my suitcase? My head’s pounding and I have something I need to show ya. Just my luck if that’s fucked too.”

“Fine!” Omar yells between clenched teeth, and storms over to the wreckage, kicking up debris along the way.

Hidden nearly fifteen yards from the crash site, a glint of light catches his eye—his father’s black suitcase, now coated in a shallow layer of dust, cracked open. He picks up the pace, wondering what was so fuckin’ important.

As Omar gets closer, his pace slows when he notices an envelope addressed to him in his father’s neat cursive handwriting. It’s closed with a wax seal. His face frowns, and he holds it up to the light. “To Omar,” it reads. The paper is thin enough that he can make out shadows of words beneath:

“Omar, by now, you know the truth. I am …”

His stomach drops and an icy shiver creeps up his spine.

A roar echoes from the other side of the wreckage. “Find anything?!”

Omar jumps. His hands scramble, concealing the letter and stuffing it back into the suitcase, slamming it shut. “Yeah… yeah… we’re good.”

After a beat, Jasper cries out,

“See any more Coke?”

“No!”

Omar steals another glance at the suitcase. His hands tremble. Then he turns his head and sees Jasper squinting into the distance, shielding his eyes with one hand.

“Would you look at that! This gas station has a restaurant… and not just those bullshit smokies. We’ll grab some food and figure out how to get back on the road.”

Omar groans.

With an extra pep in his step, Jasper strides over to Omar, grabs his suitcase, and urges, “Come on. Seeing all that deer meat made me hungry,” rubbing his stomach. “And maybe they got some Advil too—then I’ll tell ya.”

The image hits Omar like a punch to the gut and he throws up. It splashes off the asphalt, and he collapses to the ground to which Jasper says, “Good. Now you got some room.”

Omar takes the outside of his hand and wipes his mouth, feeling control of his life slip between his fingers once more. He turns his head and sees his father holding the suitcase while,

“By now you know the truth…” plays in his head.

Jasper then grabs Omar by the shoulder, helps him up, and they march towards the gas station while the deer eye watches them, knowing even in death, what the truth is.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Please like, comment, share, and tell me what you think! Sorry for the repeat post, I’m pitching literary agents right now, so I wanted to keep the cleanest version on the top of my blog. If you have the time, can you tell me if this hooks you? What do you like about it? I essentially want to use this as “Proof” as I start to pitch agents. If you can share your thoughts, it can only help. Sorry for the request.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR ALL OF YOUR HELP! ALL OF YOU ARE THE REASON I WRITE. This blog is the best part of my life, and all of you, seriously, have given me the confidence to do this. So thank you. Thank you. And thank you some more.