Fist Bump

Wayne nudged the file cabinet drawer shut.

“Only people lost in the past keep paperwork these days Pops,” said his fifteen-year-old son.  He flashed a copy of an Excel spreadsheet on his phone toward his father but seeing no recognition of this action from him, he lowered his head and thumbed one handed to more interesting sites. He murmured, “By the way, did I tell you I’ve changed my name from Jacob to Jay?” His voice tightened, “ I can’t stand being associated with a loser in the Old Testament who couldn’t even walk without a limp.”

Wayne turned within the cold shade of the storage unit to view his son. The shadow of the building cast a dark shadow across his body. Rays of morning sunlight blazed over the roofline to crown the top strands of his auburn hair as he stood near the lock gate of the unit.  Tightness gripped Wayne. Am I seeing the light of an angel or enemy? he thought. Which will I meet today?

As Wayne stepped toward the lock gate, he scanned the contents of the rental unit to remind himself of the content's value. A flash of memory told him the old Indian motorcycle he planned to rebuild leaned against the back wall. He chortled. It would require the sale of all the antiques to even reach it. He buried the image quickly, for like his wayward son, it was something deeply hidden in his heart that always demanded something he wasn’t sure he had the power to give.

He inhaled to break free of these obsessions and clicked the metal wall of the exit with his wedding ring as was his habit to indicate he was done with business for the day. “You would do well to understand why Jacob had that limp,” he said. “You’d think differently of his name.”

Jacob stood back to allow room for his dad, eyes on the phone.  “Yeah, yeah,” he said. "I’ve heard it all before. At church and at home.”

Wayne stood on the threshold of the doorway; his voice heavy. “You would do well to understand just what it cost him to get that limp.”

His son raised his eggshell brown eyes to lock onto Wayne’s black as railroad ties. He raised the volume of the heavy metal music playing on the phone. He waved it back and forth like a Fourth of July sparkler to fill the space between them. Wayne raised an arm and shouted, “You’ve damaged your brain listening to such gibberish.”

Jacob yelled, “What you say means nothing to me.” He shut the music video and shoved the cell into his breast pocket. Yelling still, he said, “I’m only here cause you needed help shoving that dumb dresser into storage. Who are you saving it for? Like all the other stuff in there it will sit forever.”

Wayne lowered his voice, arms tight at his side, the skin between his eyebrows knit tight. “It’s solid wood. It’s quality. It’s not like the cheap screw driver put-together furniture you get from Ikea. You better keep that in mind.”

“You think I’m stupid for listening to heavy metal and I think you’re stupid for living in the past. No one wants this old stuff. That’s what you need to learn.”

Wayne jammed his hands onto his hips. “Oh yeah, tell me, just what do I need to learn?”

Jacob pantomimed on the palm of his hand. “In business class we learn that to estimate profit margins you need to add the cost of the item with the materials and time it takes to maintain it, plus a portion of the rent you pay for its storage and the delivery fee. Then you deduct this total from your sale price.” Wayne’s forehead loosened. “Profit margins depend on the industry Pops. For as long as you keep your goods, I doubt you even get four percent profit.”

Wayne stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets. He uttered, “I’m impressed with your . . . your . . . sound thinking.”

“Yeah? Well, you didn’t think I knew what was going on here but I do.”

Wayne withdrew his hands and pulled down the garage’s sliding door. He locked the combination lock. When he looked up, Jacob had already jumped into the passenger seat of the truck. Wayne counted his steps around the trunk bed to slow his breathing. He opened the door and slid inside. He pulled the seat belt across his chest and clicked it. He could feel the hard profile of his son. He glanced over at him and saw he looked straight out the windshield like a bird caught in a locked cage.  Wayne shuddered and rolled down his window in an attempt to relieve the tight air between them.

“Jacob. I’m proud of what you have learned and how you explained it to me. I want you to know that is how you would learn about Jacob and his limp too. He had to fight an angel to get what he wanted. The Ottoman king Mehmed studied Alexander The Great’s military strategy to conquer Constantinople. No other conqueror had achieved that for over a thousand years.” He tapped the stirring wheel to emphasize his following point, “He wasn’t even twenty years old.” Wayne wiggled the keys out of his front jean pocket. “We know stories like these as lessons for life.” He twisted the ignition and let the engine idle. Then he let the vehicle cruise down the road that separated the storage units. “Like them, you can change your life . . .”

“I’ve got to change my life?” Jacob slapped both hands on his thighs and leaned back. He jutted his chin as though self-will alone would make the truck move faster and make his escape sooner.

“Both of those men and the musician you admire studied those who lived before them in order to learn about life and how to succeed. They knew what they wanted and used their time to build skills.”

Wayne turned the truck left at the intersection that led to the exit. He let the truck crawl up to it. “What skills are you developing son?” Jacob sat hard as a statue. “What if we say for argument’s sake, that business law is your skill. Your math teacher told me at the parent’s night that you ace the tests without turning in homework. That’s why you receive a C grade.”

“So.”

“That won’t get you into college. I’m wondering if math isn’t the talent you need to develop.”

“Who cares,” he said. He ran his hands up and down his thighs.

Wayne paused the truck at the main road. “I care. Math is simple to you. I’m going to enroll you in the college prep class. I’m pretty sure your teacher will back me on that decision.”

“You’ll do this for my own good, right?” He pulled out his phone with a defeated sigh.

“Hey. Don’t put me on hold with that phone like you say I do to you with those antiques back there.” Wayne braced his hands on the wheel. “Tell you what. I’ll sell all the stuff in the storge unit as you take that class.” His son looked at him. “In fact, I want you to keep the financial record to see that I keep my word.”

Jacob’s eyes widened.

A sudden rise of giddiness rose through Wayne. He saw a mental image of himself riding that motorcycle. Another thought raced through his mind. He laughed and said, “Knowing the past gives us fuel for the future son.” He twisted his torso to face his son square. “Let’s do this together. Let’s hold each other accountable.”

Jacob shifted his position to face his dad and pointed across the few inches that separated them, “I’ll only do this if you give me twenty percent of the profit.”

 “Oh boy, I’ll have to ask higher prices then won’t I.”

“I’ll have to ask a teacher to help me.”

Wayne nodded, the stagnant air between them vanished. He imagined that Jacob’s bird had finally taken flight. “It’s a price I’m willing to pay if you are.”

Jacob smiled and raised a fist. Wayne raised his fist. They bumped. In unison they said, “Deal!”