THE PLIGHT OF JON MCGEE

The sky is angry as the storms roll in. Jon is alone, with a storm brewing of a different kind. Possibly the last one he will ever know. Staring at a blinking line on his laptop as the rain becomes deafening against the metal shell of his camper “700 dollars for this,” he mumbles under his breath as he watches a steady drip of water fall to the rotted out floor.. He considers grabbing a bucket to catch it, but what would be the point. It’s an ancient shell of what he was sure someone, somewhere, at some point found pleasure in. Not him though, not tonight. 

   An old pedestal lamp missing a lampshade at the opposite end from the leak casts a dim light over the small space. He glances around the walls, across the ceiling and back to the blinking line. It’s a humble abode, but the fact of the matter is, despite its condition, he knows it's the nicest place he's had in several years. Definitely better than the storage unit with the spiders. He scratches a permanent scar from a brown recluse. One of many scars taken from the experience. 

   He wants to write something. Anything really, a book, an article, maybe a poem like he did when he was a teenager full of angst. Whatever it will be doesn't matter, he feels that’s what he needs, to somehow deal with the torment. . The little black cursor continues to blink as a framed group photo hanging on the wall draws his stare. His mind begins to wander as he focuses on each of the faces and tries to remember their names. A photo from his time in boot camp. He remembers everything about that day. It was division picture day. He hears the snow crunching beneath each step of their boots as they march in formation to cadence, the frigid wind cut so deep it seemed to hit bone. It was winter in the Chicago area. He can almost smell the new uniform. He still feels the weight of it, both physically and metaphorically. Recruits were only allowed to wear it for picture day. “ When you pass the course you earn it” they said. Earn it he did. “One more thing I’ll never get back,” he 

says under his breath, remembering his uniforms had been stolen during a home break in a few years prior. Who steals clothes, seriously? I never should have left, I would be Sr. Chief by now and only a couple years from retiring. She cheated and run off anyway. You idiot.  He glances to the ceiling above his cot and notices another leak dripping onto his pillow. He grabs a bucket. This is freaking ridiculous. 

   He returns to his dilapidated chair and collapsible TV tray where his laptop is currently sitting. A hiss and a snap adds to the noise as he pulls the tab on another beer. How did I get here?  Leaning forward he taps on the keyboard with one finger: Driving away, looking in the rearview mirror, watching your two year old little girl cry her eyes out, because you’re leaving...again, and not by your own will, but she doesn’t know that. In her mind she only knows her daddy is leaving her when she wants him to stay. She doesn’t yet know the legalities involved, forcing you to choke back the vomit and find a way to drive through uncontrollable tears because your weekend with her is over. That breaks a man, somewhere deep inside of him that can never be…pausing to turn up the beer, he swallows half of it’s contents with a few gulps, followed by a long drag from a cigarette. Who wants to read that crap. His finger holds down the backspace key until the small blinking cursor is all that is left on the screen. So much to say, but nothing to write, typical. I’ve got to find myself again, whoever that guy was. The one before I started a domino effect of bad life choices. Maybe I never even really knew myself in the first place. He stares at a blank screen, his eyes are drawn to the right and at a short distance. The dim light gives a glint from the barrel.

 More than a few turkey met their end with that 12 gauge. His stare is long, and in a way, loving. “What is hope anyway” he murmurs as he reaches over and takes a firm grip, bringing the gun to rest across his lap . The cold steel and wood is a familiar friend, and of course It’s locked and loaded. “Always be ready” is his doctrine. 

   He leans forward and starts to type. Two ex wives, enumerable failed relationships, four kids, one of which I haven’t seen in years at no fault of my own. Bankrupt, homeless, basically jobless, There was a time ... sitting back in his chair staring at the words, he extinguishes a cigarette butt in a partially empty beer can. “Now that’s a fine resume.” he says with a level of sarcasm only he himself is privy to. Edit>select all>delete. The page goes blank. Once again he stares at the blinking line on a blank screen. 

   The rain sounds like a never ending load of gravel being dumped on the roof, the gusts of wind are growing stronger, the camper starts to violently shake. It could be a tornado. Who cares. There is a storm raging inside of him that supersedes anything going on outside. His mind is made up. He wants to make this quick and painless. Still staring at a blinking cursor, he positions the barrel at just the right angle, it has to be right. With his left hand on the trigger, his right hand begins to type. “There is no hope..” Finally something to say.

   The noise of the wind and rain is overwhelming inside the camper. “Perfect” Jon says to himself. He hits the last keystroke. The water is now pouring in from the leaks. He looks around the “nicest” place he’d had in a long time. One last look. He sees the old guitar hanging on the wall he planned to restore, but alcohol always took priority. He takes another look at the wiring and insulation saturated and hanging from the ceiling, and down to that old cot that smells of countless sweaty nights. He takes a deep breath, fully inhaling the musty smell of the rotting wood, and the wet insulation mixed with stagnant beer and lingering cigarette smoke. 

   This is my last breath. His finger slowly pushes the trigger. It had a heavy pull, and he was pushing down now, not something he had done before. I need a better angle.  He repositions. One more last breath as the trigger slowly starts to compress. His eyes close.There is no hope. The noise around him seems to fade as he closes his eyes and slowly pushes the trigger further down. 

Frantic banging on the side of the camper jolts him out of the chair causing him to fling the gun, knocking over the tv table sending the laptop against the far wall as the table and the 12 guage fall to the floor with a thud . More frantic banging on the side of the camper causes him to jump again, the banging was followed by a familiar voice screaming over the noise of the storm, “ Jon are you in there?”. A voice he hasn’t heard in years, at least not in person. An emotional dam burst as the tears began to streak down his cheeks. . lowering his head into his hands, he sobs uncontrollably. The realization of the mistake he was about to make becomes tangible .

More banging, louder now. ”Jon? Joooon!”. 

Trying to regain composure, seconds feel like minutes. Square it up sailor, . He takes a deep breath as a smile sweeps across his face. Raising his head, his watery green eyes glisten in the dim light, as he whispers to himself, “Aly.” The estranged voice of his dearest friend, the voice of an angel tonight, has returned to save him once again.