Missed part 1? Check it out here: The Last Letter – tonysbologna : Honest. Satirical. Observations

 

It’s a long read but would love to know your thoughts! Thanks!!

 

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 3 The Letter

 

 

All roads in life twist and turn to the same place… a gas station. The only true melting pot still left in this world. It’s the place where the rich wait in line with the poor. The place where optimism shakes hands with pessimism. The only place where you get to see the past, present, and future of humanity all waiting in the same damn line. It’s unapologetic. It’s real. It’s conveniently inconvenient, and it’s here where the road releases its secrets.

Jasper and Omar enter the gas station, their arrival announced by the doorbell’s familiar DING. Omar couldn’t help but rub his temples and wipe his glasses, as the weight of reality bore down on him, threatening to crush his head.

The gas station’s overly fluorescent lights and the sharp smell of chemicals weren’t exactly helping the cause either. Even worse were the loud screams coming from behind the counter. They were deep, angry, and filled with rage, all things one doesn’t want to see when they stumble into a gas station, let alone post-crash. This begged Omar and Jasper to take in the spectacle that is roadside America.

Standing behind the gas station counter was a husk of a man who looked like he’d seen the worst of humanity. And to be fair, when you work at a roadside gas station with only one tiny bathroom, you probably have.

He has tattered grey skin, and his eyes seemed to scream for a cigarette break, but unfortunately, his escape was blocked. Because the hot-headed leprechaun-looking man, mouth still blaring, was standing before him with eyes filled with fire. He wore a green suit jacket with red hair pouring out from under his shillelagh cap and was shaking his fist so hard, you’d have to assume someone stole his pot o’ gold.

“Now listen here, my lad, by state law, you have to pay me! I don’t care if you don’t have money! The Ford sitting out front will do just fine,” the Leprechaun-Looking Man screams.

Omar and Jasper lean into the performance like they were in the audience of a Jerry Springer show, enjoying the rich American drama of a good old-fashioned public outburst. Their eyes were open, their eyebrows were raised, and hell did they ever wish they had popcorn. Bob, the attendant, shoots a wary glance at Omar, his lip curling slightly.

“Listen, Bub; Jerry owes you money for the show, not me,”  Bob grumbles before adding, “I just work here.”

Jasper looks at Omar and taps him on the shoulder. “You never call a grown man Bub… it’s like eating bad coleslaw—it won’t sit well.”

Omar rolls his eyes, then the Leprechaun-Looking Man’s eyes bulge out of his head.

“I’m not your Bub… BUB!”

Jasper nudges Omar again.

“See what I mean?”

Omar nods with a half-smile.

The Leprechaun-Looking Man paces from side to side, until he comes to a stop and slams his hands on the counter.

“Well, Jerry said to come here to pick my check up. He told me to talk to YOU! He said YOU would have it, probably in that register you’re standing over. So where is it? I’ve got a show tonight, and I need to be paid today.”

The Leprechaun-Looking Man then leans over the counter and rips the nametag off the Gas Station Attendant’s chest and begins to read.

“So, BOB, when can I expect my money?”

Bob fully opens his eyes for what may have been the first time and squeezes his fist so hard that his knuckles turn white. He stares at his menace, then explodes.

“Get the fuck out of my gas station! Bub!” Bob roars.

Veins appear all over the Leprechaun-Looking Man’s body.

“It’s Jerry’s gas station, you fuckin’ asshole!” He roars.

Jasper and Omar shift uncomfortably, unsure whether to step in or stay out, as they exchange sideways glances. The Leprechaun-Looking Man looks through Bob, at the cash register, sizing him up, deciding if he can take him on. Then, after a moment, he passes. Instead, he reaches into his jacket, produces a business card, and slams it on the counter.

“Listen, Bub—you’re going to get my money, and you’re going to call me when you have it.” He motions to his card on the counter. “If I don’t hear from you in an hour, me and my friends are gonna pay you a visit. And I promise you this, it ain’t gonna be friendly. Make sure Ol’ Jerry boy gets the message and my money.”

He then pushes himself back off of the counter, takes a step or two towards the exit before turning back.

“What kind of guy owns a gas station and a bar but doesn’t have any money to pay performers?”

Bob shakes his head.

“The kind that’s paying the bills for both places,” Bob mutters.

The Leprechaun-Looking Man squeezes his fist and storms off, hastily bumping into Jasper on the way out.

Omar bristles, but Jasper shrugs it off with a slight smile at his son’s reaction. There must be some love left in his heart.

Now, standing in the moist air of a thoroughly awkward moment, they approach Bob, who is a human volcano coming down from an eruption, with his face slowly losing its redness. Tepidly, Jasper and Omar lean on the counter, a curious grin across their faces.

“Eh—man, is your restaurant still open?” says Jasper behind an I-just-saw-you-embarrass-yourself smile.

Bob frowns as if the question is beneath him, as if Jasper and Omar should have been able to read an invisible sign that told them the store’s hours. Then, inconceivably, he pulls his dirty trucker hat down off his head, complete with a ring of white, dried sweat, and puts on a 1950s diner chef hat to complete the look.

“Right this way, your majesty,” Bob snarks and steps out from behind the counter and leads the men past the sugary sweet shit all stoners love to a table in the back of the restaurant.

Omar and Jasper make eye contact.

“I kind of see why that guy was mad, this guy’s an asshole,” says Jasper just under his breath.

Omar swallows his smile.

The restaurant had all the hallmarks of a dingy roadside restaurant: foam booths with stuffing pouring out, tables scarred by ancient coffee rings, and mahogany brown coffee mugs that screamed “1970s kitchen.”

Even better, the floor and wall were a mac-and-cheese yellow color, but you couldn’t tell if it was from cigarettes or bad taste. As Jasper nods his approval for the restaurant, Omar flashes a glare at Jasper.

“Dad… what the hell are we going to do here? Does this place even have Wi-Fi? They don’t even have cable.”

He points around the room and is greeted with more questions than answers. The place looks as if it hadn’t seen a good cleaning since it opened 50-some-odd years ago, and the patrons all looked to suffer that fate, with wrinkled faces in each bite.

Jasper sighs and scans the room. “Eh, relax. We’re going to enjoy breakfast, then we’ll figure it out.”

A waitress holding a plate of undercooked eggs struts by their table. Jasper scrunches his nose as he sees a hair on the plate. “Well… attempt to.”

Omar jerks forward. “Relax? How can you be so relaxed about this?! We almost died! And the car did die!”

Jasper pushes the air down and lowers his voice.

“Because we crashed my crappy car and not my Vette,” says Jasper with a smile. He continues, “Far as I’m concerned, we did ourselves a favor. I’ll get a new car, you’ll get breakfast, and we’ll be fine.”

Omar huffs.

“Well, I’m glad you’re feeling fine. You get a new car, I get an ulcer. Seems fair, right?”

“Hey! I still have a headache,” says Jasper.

Jasper taps the table and Omar shifts from side to side, hoping that it will level out his frustration and the chair spring jumping up his ass. No dice.

“Just relax, we’re gonna be fine.”

“We’ll be fine?—we’ll be fine? We don’t have a fucking car!” shouts Omar.

Jasper looks like he’s about to pounce at the word “fuck” and motions to Omar to keep it down. But a nearby booth swivels, revealing a man with a protruding beer belly straining against a T-shirt with an arrow pointing to his face that says, “Please, sit here.”

He clears his throat, his gaze now settling on Omar. “Hey, son, this here’s a family place,” he says while jamming his finger down on his greasy table. The thud of the finger rings out across the room.

The man’s wife, sporting a shirt that screams, “Yoga is for yuppies,” looks up from her plate, her face mirroring his disapproval.

The man continues, “Watch your language, please. There’s ladies here.” He raises his eyebrows to cement his point and puts his arm around his wife, who scowls down at her coffee.

Jasper lowers his eyes and offers a placating smile. “This generation, I’m telling you… no respect.” He smiles easily at the stranger. “Apologies, sir, we’ll watch our language, won’t we, Omar?”

Omar raises his eyebrows and squeaks, “Sor… sorry, sir.”

The man grunts and nods, seemingly mollified. “That’s better.”

Omar never felt so low.

The man turns back to his plate, and Omar rubs his temples, having never quite appreciated how likable his father was. Jasper then turns back to Omar, stares straight at his son, and slips out nine words loud enough for the idiot to hear.

“Man, this place has a bunch of fucking assholes.”

The idiot man spits out his coffee, throws money on the table, and wobbles out of the restaurant, leaving the floorboards wheezing underneath. Jasper and Omar could faintly hear the man muttering something about a ‘family establishment’ and ‘how things aren’t what they used to be.’

The Watson men shake their heads.

Across the table, Omar leans back in his seat and feels an unusual feeling coming from his cheeks: a smile growing across his face. That was the most honest interaction he’d had with his father in years, and it made him start to question if every memory he had, maybe wasn’t that bad. But the moment, although pleasant, was interrupted by a familiar feeling… panic. Omar rubs his temples once more and silently questions if he’s gonna be late for that knife gig, and more pressingly how the hell they’re going to get out of here, and what the letter was. After a while, Omar sits up in his booth.

“Dad, you still didn’t say how we’re gonna get a car,” says Omar, his head now turning towards the parking lot. “We can’t just take one.”

Jasper nervously fiddles his fingers across the table, making a soft drumming sound.

“Shit, this ain’t no big deal, I’m gonna call Triple A, and we’ll be back on the road in no time. They’ll take us to a rental.”

Omar shakes his head.

“Rent from where? The cows? We’re about five miles past the middle of nowhere!” says Omar.

“There’s always a somewhere in nowhere,” Jasper assures, his eyes drifting towards the suitcase. They were steely, yet sad, knowing the news he was about to share. He scratches underneath his nose, a nervous habit, and coughs.

Omar rolls his eyes once more.

“Hey—uh—can you hand me my suitcase?” Jasper says with a bit of uneasiness and coughs again.

“And the deer, Dad, the deer. What… what are we gonna do? Just leave it? That’s illegal, right?”

“The uh, suitcase, son. Can you please pass it?”

“There were guts. EVERYWHERE. I mean, it looked like a murder scene.” Omar pauses, then jolts up. “It was a murder scene.”

“Damn it, Omar, pass me my damn suitcase!” Jasper’s words carry across the restaurant causing a score of heads to turn.

Omar stops and glances at the suitcase beside him. Inside, he can’t shake the feeling that something is off. His father, among many things, was certainly not a suitcase guy. Far from it—his sweatpants wouldn’t allow him the luxury.

“You alright?” says Omar, handing him the suitcase. “Weren’t you just the one telling me to keep it down?”

Jasper nods and swallows loud enough for Omar to hear.

“You know what, I was. I’m sorry about that.”

Jasper then strums his fingers along the table once more, and Omar, not believing him, feels a knot growing in his stomach.

Jasper coughs again. Omar leans closer.

“What’s… what’s this about?”

Jasper looks straight and rubs his fingers together.

“So, um… listen. I know life has been hard lately—and we haven’t exactly been close—but there’s something I need to tell you,” says Jasper between coughs.

Omar shifts from side to side, hoping that it will diffuse whatever is about to happen. “This is gonna be hard,” Jasper mumbles to himself, looking down, then straightening back up. “Son… ah—well—there really isn’t an easy way to say this, so I’m gonna come out and say it, and please don’t make a scene.”

Omar feels his hair bristle as he leans over the table, causing it to creak.

Jasper then clears his throat like he has a big pill he needs to swallow. Finally, his words tumble out, one word-bomb at a time. “I have cancer.” They sail across the table and smack Omar in the face.

Omar’s face goes blank like someone turned the lights off, and he stares at Jasper, not blinking.

Then after a moment, the weight of the words starts to sink in, one syllable at a time. Cancer? Cancer?! Then a slow recognition. Cancer. That cancer. His body burned.

He wants to say something. Anything, really. Like “I’m sorry” or “How long have you known?” or even just “Dad.” But his throat closes up, keeping his words within, because his mind is racing, ending at the foregone conclusion: death.

Jasper breathes out, and looks forward, and sighs out, “Yeah.”

Omar’s hands start to shake under the table. He grips his knees to stop it, but it doesn’t work and he feels heat rising to his face that makes his eyes sting.

But why the tears? Why shed tears for a man you don’t need?

Omar exhales, and grunts, “Huh?” and focuses his eyes.

For the first time in a long time, he saw his father was not the imposing figure he’d built him up to be but, in fact, the opposite—a flawed human, a doomed human, a human-human. And time slows down as Omar sees his father for what feels like the first time.

He notices how his face seems to be a little gaunter, and his bones poking through his cheeks. He sees how his eyes are a tad more sunken and how his clothes seem to hang a little looser. A far cry from the button-bursting shirts he used to wear. Jasper was objectively skinnier than before and aged like a two-term president since the last time he saw him, complete with fading gray hair and the general look of exhaustion. Then, a frustrating thought wormed its way to smack dab in the center of his brain. How could he miss the frail man right in front of him? How could he be so blind? Omar snaps his eyes shut. Inside, a blocked-out memory resurfaces, and he rubs his temples hard as it starts to play.

A little over five years ago, Omar lost his mother, and Jasper lost his wife to cancer. Even more so, Jasper and Omar lost their relationship with each other. People say grief brings families closer together, but for the Watson men, grief gave them masks.

Jasper’s mask had a smile and a stopwatch. The death made him tear through his bucket list like a man racing against the clock — renting sports cars he couldn’t afford, skydiving with strangers, and road-tripping across three states just for a steak someone swore was life-changing. Anything and everything to keep him moving because slowing down meant thinking, and thinking meant feeling.

On the other hand, Omar’s mask had its eyes closed. He turned to drugs, hoping numbness would quiet the pain, because if he couldn’t feel it, maybe he could avoid it. But feelings don’t disappear like that. Feelings are more like weeds — cut them down once and they grow back twice as thick.

It carried on like this for months, until the distance between them grew too wide to ignore.

One night, Jasper caught Omar using drugs, and Omar caught Jasper planning a singles vacation. Neither man was in any position to throw stones, yet both of them threw.

The fight that followed was less of a conversation and more of a detonation. Every misunderstanding, every eye roll, every glance they’d buried clawed its way to the surface, each man red-faced and accusing the other of not taking the loss seriously.

Eventually, Omar found himself saying the words he couldn’t take back.

“Fuck you. I’ll never speak to you again.”

Then he stormed out.

He still remembers the slam of the door.

Even now, the echo screams in his head.

Still, Omar’s throat tightens. The anger, the years of built-up walls, crumble under the weight of a single truth: his father was a man, not a monument—a flawed, aging human facing his own mortality. And somewhere, beneath the layers of resentment, a sliver of a forgotten connection flickers, faint but persistent, dying to see the light.

The diner snaps into focus as a waitress drops scrambled eggs at a nearby table. They heard the glass plate bouncing off the wooden surface and snap into the moment.

Omar squeezes the bridge of his nose.

“I’m… I’m sorry. How bad is it?” Omar asks, struggling to steady his voice.

Jasper looks down, a deep frown etching his face.

“Stage 4.”

Silence.

Omar looks away.

“How much time you got left?” His voice is barely above a whisper.

Jasper stares into his coffee cup, seeing more than just his reflection.

“We’ll see.”

Omar shivers. Jasper averts his gaze.

Around them, the once-bustling diner falls eerily still, at least in the world of the Watson men. Jasper reaches across the chair, hoisting up a black suitcase, its gold buckles flashing brightly against Omar’s brown face.

“Which brings me to this. Now that I’m faced, or rather reminded, that my time is coming to an end, there’s really only one matter that’s important,” Jasper begins.

Life buzzes on around them. The other diner people were living their lives, playing with their food. Somewhere, a lady was mentally bitching out a waitress for not filling up her coffee cup in time. In the bathroom, a man pisses on the floor and walks away like it was nothing. Yet, just a few tables over, two lives were crashing. It made Omar think about how the world is blissfully unaware.

“I don’t think I’ve been a good father to you,” Jasper admits.

Omar hugs himself, trying to squeeze out the surge of uncertainty rising up from his gut.

“And now that you’re moving away—”

Then, all at once, Omar snaps.

“Don’t you think you could’ve told me that before I decided to move across the country?”

Jasper leans forward.

“Don’t you think you could have called me once during the past five years?” Jasper retorts.

He then looks down at the table, swallowing his anger, and sighs and straightens up his shirt. “Hold on, let me finish. I know… I know I haven’t always been there when you needed me. And I know I’ve been hard on you, but I want you to know the only thing I have ever unconditionally loved is you.”

Omar fights back a tear and ignores the voice inside him, urging him to “Remain calm.” His chest tightens while his hands ball into fists under the table and pressure begins building behind his eyes. But he can’t. Not here. Not now. Not in front of all these people.

So he focuses on the table. The coffee rings. The scratch marks. Anything but his father’s face.

Jasper continues.

“And I honestly have a hard time expressing myself. I don’t know why, but… it’s hard for me to show my true emotions. I try to put on a nice, easy-going face most of the time. But it kills me that I could have been so much better. Anyway, I wanted to write you some letters on everything I never said but should have said… so you can have them after I’m gone.”

Omar can hardly look at the suitcase. Can hardly look at anything. The room feels too small. Too hot. Like the walls are closing in.

A fan hums overhead, the only sound breaking the heavy silence while Jasper unbuckles the suitcase, revealing a pile of letters against plaid-stitched back paneling. He pulls out the first letter. The paper is an old beige color, as if it had been hiding in secret for years, waiting to come into the world. In the center are the initials J.W. with a red wax stamp.

“I think you’ve been drifting after Mom’s been gone, so no matter where you go in life, I hope these letters will help you find your treasure, and believe me, there is great treasure to be found in this world.”

Omar’s face twists, and he feels his stomach jump. Treasure? Who was this man?

Jasper scratches the gunk out of the corner of his eye and continues.

“There are five letters total, and I’d like to give you one each day of the trip. I know this is heavy, but please allow me this one last pleasure. It’s a dying man’s wish.”

Omar’s vision blurs. He blinks hard, trying to clear it, but it doesn’t work. Everything is swimming now, the letters, his father’s face, the fluorescent lights overhead.

He can’t breathe. He can’t think and he sure as shit can’t be here anymore.

“Excuse me,” he chokes out, his voice cracking. “I’ll be right back.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. Instead he stands up, chair scraping loud against the floor, and runs toward the bathroom.

And once he gets inside the door, he breaks.

The first sob comes out sudden and violent, like a drowning person coming up for air. Then another. Then another. He braces himself against the sink, gripping the edges so hard his knuckles turn white.

most of all he hates that he wasted five years being angry when he could have been… what? Forgiven him? Loved him? He doesn’t even know. He pushes away from the mirror and wipes his face with his forearm and runs water, hoping it will drown out the sound of him falling apart. But it doesn’t. Nothing does.

So he just stands there, shaking, sobbing, gripping that sink like it’s the only thing keeping him from disappearing entirely.

Thirty years of unresolved issues, seeing the light for the first time.

After a spell, a loud fart behind the stall reminds Omar that the space was not private, and it was probably a good time to go.

He splashes water on his face once then twice, grabs a paper towel and scrubs at his face until it’s red and raw. Then he takes a deep breath, grabs the door and exits.

“Are you okay?” Jasper asks, noticing the red in Omar’s eyes.

“I’m fine, just… uhh ate something wrong.”

Jasper nods.

“Yeah. Been there before.” Jasper looks away, then slowly returns to the letter. It’s now resting in his hand, and his eyes study it.

Then he swallows and puts his other hand on Omar’s shoulder. “Why don’t you read the first letter, son?”

He slides it across the table so as not to really give a choice. Reluctantly, Omar picks it up, wipes his eyes, peels back the thick wax stamp, sighs, and then begins reading.

Omar,

By now, you know the truth. I am sick and don’t have long for this world. And when you’re sick and reminded of your mortality, you’re reminded of the gift life really is. You’re reminded that any day can be your last day. You’re reminded of the people and places that were important to you. You’re reminded of the value of a moment and reminded how quickly it slips into a memory.

I have so much to say to you that I struggle to say it.

Do you know the saying, “Words can’t express what you mean to me?” I think it’s wrong. What it really means is, “I love you more than words,” and for me, it’s true.

Now, I don’t want a pity party because who loves a downer? But the silver lining is death has given me perhaps life’s greatest blessing… clarity. In other words, I can see clearly for the first time even if the rain ain’t gone.

I know that our relationship hasn’t always been the best. And for that, I apologize. But know this truth: You’re my son. My friend. My legacy. I love you, and I always have. And it’s why I wanted to come on this trip. Because I have so much to teach you and so little time left. And even though it may sound hokey, I want to dedicate the end of my life to something important: You.

Call it maybe the pain meds they gave me. Call it the death-given-hope, but I believe life is ultimately one thing: A treasure hunt. And it’s on you to discover your treasure.

In these letters, I hope to teach you everything you need to find it. And when I’m gone, I hope you will find the real treasure I have left you.

So where does the hunt begin? Well, the first tool you need to discover your treasure in any story is a compass. Fortunately, you were born with one, and its arrow is energy.

You see, son, you have an internal compass that points to the inescapable force of energy. It’s on you to discover what pulls you forward and what makes you feel alive.

Energy, like all energy, can’t be seen but can rather be felt. And the way you use your compass is to notice the moments when time moves slow. To notice the moments where minutes become hours. To notice which activities you can’t help yourself from doing.

In short, your job is to notice. To observe your life. And to not view life in the rearview like I have, but rather the windshield, always looking forward. So pay attention to your compass because it’s only when you’re on the right track that you can find your treasure.

I love you and am so proud of you.

Your father, -Jasper.

Omar neatly folds the letter in half and tucks it back into the envelope with delicate precision, unsure how to act after being brain-bombed. He half-expects to see his thoughts oozing out as pink goo on the table and leans back when he just sees the streak of light gleaming off the table.

He gazes across the restaurant, deliberately avoiding his father’s eyes. Jasper, despite everything, drinks his Coke as if it were just another Saturday. Then, after a moment, the world slows down, and Omar regains his composure. Jasper holds his breath, locking his gaze on Omar’s face, while Omar returns the glance. The silence stretches, each man waiting for the other to make his move. And in the standoff, neither man notices the white van pulling up with the Leprechaun-Looking Man and his friends.

Omar shifts in his chair, his breath catching, betraying the turmoil within. His body, tense and coiled like a spring, screams for release. Yet, with a slow, deliberate exhale, he forces himself to remain calm.

“The letter,” Omar begins, his voice rough with unspoken emotions. “It’s… it’s a lot.” Each word tumbles out, heavy with the weight of the news dragging him down.

Jasper’s shoulders slump as a touch of sadness crosses his face. He understood. Vulnerability wasn’t their strong suit.

“And everything’s been a lot lately,” Omar continues, his voice barely a whisper. He still avoids Jasper’s gaze, focusing instead on the worn tabletop as a sudden heat floods his cheeks.

“But,” he starts, then stops and clears his throat, searching for the right words to say.

“I’m here,” he finally says, pausing before continuing, “For the ride. Thanks… thank you for telling me.”

A heavy silence descends again, broken only by the soft clinking of a spoon against a ceramic cup. Omar stares down at his hands and feels a ball of unease bounce in his gut. It isn’t quite regret but the dull ache of missed opportunities.

“Thanks for the letter,” he mumbles, the words barely audible. “It means… a lot.” Even the simplest expression of gratitude feels awkward on his tongue.

Jasper nods. “No problem.”

They finish their meals in silence, neither man looking up, tip the waitress, and saunter towards the front, ready to make a plan when they see the Leprechaun-Looking Man, now accompanied by a gang of equally peculiar friends.

Five grubby-faced men and women dressed in caps reminiscent of the 1930s encircle the cashier like a pack of hungry wolves. The Leprechaun-Looking Man shouts at the wide-eyed gas station attendant, “You’re gonna pay me, or my boys are gonna give you some trouble,” sliding his tongue across his teeth.

Bob crosses his arms as a disapproving smirk grows on his face. “I said it once, and I’ll say it again—get the hell out of my…” But before he could finish, one of the Leprechaun-Looking Man’s friends reaches out to a shelf, grabs a box of Paydays, and sends it flying towards a wall. It crashes, sending the bars everywhere. Another goon, quiet and wiry, stuffs candy bars into his pockets, eyes darting.

“Now that’s one hell of a Payday,” Jasper mumbles.

Omar covers his mouth, focusing on Bob, who is turning a fiery shade of red as he glares at the little bits of peanuts rolling on the ground.

“You better be cleaning that shit up, BUB!” Bob erupts.

“Pipe down, Jr.!” the Leprechaun-Looking Man retorts.

Bob’s skin turns ghost white.

Jasper turns to Omar, “Call a man Bub and Jr.… that’s worse than a motherfucker.”

“Now where’s my money?” says the Leprechaun-Looking Man as he moves dangerously close to the register. “You owe me.”

“I ain’t paying out!” Bob screams.

The Leprechaun-Looking Man smiles. “That’s fine—we’re used to payin’ ourselves. Have at it, lads!”

His goons break into a frenzy and, like a couple of mini-Tasmanian devils with sticky fingers, start putting trinkets into their pockets. The Leprechaun-Looking Man leans on the counter and smiles.

“You see what you did, lad? You done fucked up! You shoulda paid me.”

Bob’s eyes are deep, dark holes, unable to process the chaos within, while Omar’s eyes widen as he scans the destruction. A rogue purple gumball rolls to a stop near Jasper, who promptly scoops it up and pops it into his mouth.

“Dad?!” Omar yells.

“What… Five-second rule,” Jasper replies nonchalantly, adding, “I wish they’d hit that fuckin’ Coke machine.”

As if on cue, one of the Leprechaun’s goons lights up as if he just heard the best idea in the entire fucking world. Moments later, the vending machine crashes to the floor, scattering soda bottles everywhere. Jasper quickly snatches one up.

“The universe provides!” says Jasper. Bob fixates on the Coke in Jasper’s hand, his eyes focusing like a homing missile.

“You better be paying for that, JR.!”

Jasper feistily turns to Bob. “Motherfucker, don’t call me JR.! … JR.!”

The Leprechaun-Looking Man smiles at Jasper. “That’s right, lad!”

Jasper nods appreciatively.

Bob is so angry he’s shaking. He reaches for the old phone hanging on the wall. “I’m calling the cops, man!” Bob cries, sounding like a hippie losing his mind.

“Come on, lads, grab all that you can carry!” cries the Leprechaun-Looking Man. “Get a paycheck’s worth!”

“Uh-oh, we gotta get out of here!” says Jasper.

“Why?” says Omar.

“Cause’ we’re Black!” cries Jasper.

Omar raises a lip as his jaw drops.

“Well, where the hell are we gonna go, Dad?!”

“Beats me, let’s just get the fuck outside. I ain’t trying to be here when the cops come. THAT will fuck up your plans.”

As Omar makes his way outside, he can hear Bob speaking into the phone. “We have a robbery at the gas station. Send someone quick! There’s a gang of performers tearing the place apart and I got two Black guys who might be stealing too.”

Omar pushes the door open and fixates on the Leprechaun gang. They were still in the gas station, pushing the aisles over, sending candy flying every which way, causing Omar to almost feel bad for the janitor, who is probably also Bob.

After a bit, the door flies open, and Omar can hear the Leprechaun-Looking Man shouting, “Move! Move! Move!” like some kind of fucked-up drill sergeant.

As quickly as they’d appeared, they disappeared. The gang makes their way outside to a white van with the engine humming.

“Dad, they’re calling the cops!” Omar’s voice trembles.

Omar casts one last glance at Bob, whose phone is glued to his ear, before noticing Jasper making eye contact with the Leprechaun-Looking Man.

“Hey, Patty!—Can we get a ride with you?” says Jasper.

The Leprechaun-Looking Man waves towards the van, urging them to hurry. But Omar stands still outside the entrance, jaw still open.

“Come on!” bellows Jasper.

Omar just blinks.

“I said COME ON!” says Jasper as he reaches for Omar’s arm, pulling him towards the van.

“But… but…” Omar stutters.

“Just get in the van!” Jasper insists, hoisting Omar up. He doesn’t even have time to turn back and see Bob run out, shaking his fist.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                          

 

Please, like, comment, share and tell me what you think! To me the first 3 chapters are the most important of a book, so i’m just looking for feedback, thanks for all of your support!