Reluctance

    I came home from my final long day of work and immediately changed into my pyjamas, grabbed a beer from the fridge, and sat my happy ass down on the couch. The selection of books from my shelf was small, but important to me; each one contains a story that says something about me, or about my life at the time I read it. I traced a finger along the spines invisible on the shelf above me, feeling their familiar cracks and bruises. Vision wasn’t necessary, because I knew this bookshelf by heart and feel alone.

    Also, it’s organized alphabetically, so I just had to count to seven before I grabbed Brother Odd by Dean Koontz. 

I’d left off just in the middle, the last time I picked this book up, and promised myself I’d finish it some time this month. I kicked up my feet, wrenched the top of my beer off, snuggled myself into my favorite throw blanket and rifled through pages until I stopped remembering the paragraphs. I settled in for a cozy evening, just myself and Odd Thomas, while he explored the monastery he lived at. The blanket wound its way around my legs like it always did, in a tangled mess that might require Alexander the Great’s sword to free me.

    A vibrating sound made itself an intruder on the silence I ruled could only be broken by the slurps of liquid and turning of pages. As a stickler for the rules, I glared at my phone until it stopped out of embarrassment. The light dimmed and once more I contented myself, alone with my book and my drink. But the vibration repeated itself, like a jerk at the library who’d been told to hush and did, but only for about thirty seconds before acting up again.

    I sighed and wriggled my way out of the cocoon of a blanket, emerging much less like a butterfly and much more like the payload of a trebuchet through a cardboard wall. Only with more clean-up. I knocked my beer over, and the pyramid of likewise empty bottles stacked on the coffee table threatened to wobble themselves into oblivion. Similar to Odd Thomas, I had also promised myself that I would clear the table off some time this month, but I was crossing my fingers at the time. Fortunately, I was able to cross this one off the list of promises I kept, but was now under oath to clear the floor instead.

    Angry more at myself than the phone, I ignored the mess and stared at my notifications. Two missed calls from Robert. He’s my best friend in the world, but he knows how I feel on Friday nights; it’s my unwinding time, and I was to remain undisturbed. Childishly, I stared in a huff at the mess on my floor and blamed Robert for some of it. This only lasted a few seconds before I realized I was being silly, and began to clean up the mess. Robert could wait.

    Robert couldn’t wait. I was maybe ten minutes and two trash bags into my Adopt-A-Highway effort when I heard a hurried knocking on my door. So I did what I always do when I don’t want anyone to think I’m home: I ignored it and tried to be as quiet as possible. But I saw the deadbolt slide from locked to unlocked, and the realization that my night was going to be interrupted regardless of how much I willed the universe for it not to finally dawned on me, and I regretted the day I gave Robert a key in that moment.

    Robert entered the apartment and looked around, only to find me encircled by dozens of empty bottles and fast food bags. I was certain my hands were dirty from whatever crud had accumulated on the floor. He raises his eyebrow at me, and flips the light switch next to him.

    “Might help if you could see what you were doing?” he asks, without a trace of irony on his face.

    I’ve probably looked better in my life. The light didn’t help. I didn’t need his teasing; not tonight. “I can see just fine in the dark, thank you,” I told him, trying to subtly apply some haughtiness in my retort.

    He ignored this and said, “Well, we’re gonna be late because you didn’t answer your phone. Chop chop, get your shoes on.”

    Late? For what? “I’m not going anywhere. Work took a lot out of me today, and I’m not in the mood for games.” I returned to my task of collecting bottles and bid him away.

    “Nooooo, wrong answer. We’re going to the tournament tonight. It’s the finals, dickhead.”

    “I don’t care; look at this mess! I was just going to read tonight, and now look what I’ve got to deal with,” I said in my best and-that’s-final voice. 

    Robert wasn’t having it. “Listen, fucker, I’m finally gonna be crowned champion tonight. And you promised you’d be there.”

    I stopped mid-bottle. He was right; it was four weeks ago, when he’d won the semi-finals and I was sixty pages and five beers into that evening. I’ve got to stop making promises, I told myself. 

Robert didn’t wait for an answer. He picked up my shoes in one hand, and grabbed my wrist with the other. 

“Hey,” I protested, “wait! Stop! I’m, err, not even dressed appropriately!” I knew I was reaching, but it appeared my fate was sealed. I cursed the stars, but inside I knew that they didn’t particularly care. I could see them twinkling down at me as I was dragged into his car waiting out front, engine still running.

“You look fine. Look, you’re my best friend, and I know you stopped playing years ago, but I know inside you still care about the game and you can’t wait to see me take the crown home. It’s gonna be a victory for both of us, bud. This is as much for your own good as it is for mine.” His and-that’s-final voice was significantly more convincing than mine. I didn’t retort, but I stopped letting him pull me and seated myself into the passenger side of his car before he threw me in.

Robert drove us to the venue, and we chatted about everything and nothing on the drive. I spent the time he took his turn talking to steal glances at my phone, trying to determine how long this would take and how soon I could go home and finish my book. 

We arrived, and I was fortunate to let my guard down about my appearance. The people in attendance at this venue were infrequently as well dressed as I was. It made sense; they were all here on a Friday night to watch two dorks play a card game for a moderately-sized prize pool and the rights to wear a gaudy golden crown for a year. Evening wear typically doesn’t find it’s way into conventions like these. 

Robert had me tag along with him while he chatted with the referees and made sure he had an advocate about what concessions were going to be made. I knew this role well, and I made sure my boy would be given the fairest shot possible. We agreed on seating, lighting, and other comfort necessities that got you into the best mind-state you could before the game even started. Robert wasn’t really picky about these kinds of things, but his opponent was. I was there to be sure his opponent wasn’t trying to pull a fast one, and made him vouch for every inch he was going to be given. The man wanted a waiter to stand by his side for the match, for heaven’s sake. 

With everything agreed upon, Robert walked with me to the seating arena and I kissed his cheek for good luck. “Kick his ass,” I told him, and he smiled and walked to the stage for the pre-match interviews.

I won’t bore you with the details of the card game, but some context is going to be necessary. Robert and I met as young as ten years old each while playing this game, and he never stopped. I never got into it professionally, but I’m not an amateur. The reality is that while I wanted to compete in the game, financial obligations had something else to say. It was an expensive hobby, buying cards and trying to get the newest and best ones to add to your deck. Instead, fate told me I had to find work in order to pay bills and feed my face. I stopped playing about a year into my job, when the stress of it was keeping me from enjoying my hobbies. The last game I played was three years ago, and I had to borrow cards from Robert in order to play. I had to sell my collection that I’d spent the previous fifteen years building up, when a surprise hospital bill got sent to collections. It was the worst day of my life; even worse than the day I found out I had colon cancer.

Robert was a little different. He was much better than me at the game, and we both would enter the same tournament, I would regularly crash out in group stages and he’d finish top four. The prize winnings when you’re a top-four player are surprisingly liveable, but they don’t hand out salaries to people like me. The thing was, I could always get inside Robert’s mind. Against other players, he has a strong record. Against me, I’m given 4:1 odds.

I was Robert’s best sparring partner, best advocate, and best friend, and it’s been like that since we were kids. He was right: this moment was important for both of us, because without me there would be no Robert. And here he was -- this was the first time he’d made it to the finals of a premier tournament and I couldn’t be prouder. His opponent had won the last four years in a row. For the duration of the final match, I didn’t even check what time it was.

The match was exhilarating and the back-and-forth blows they rendered each other were a spectacle to behold -- that is, if you knew anything about the game. I cheered. I cried. I felt every defeat Robert suffered and celebrated every victory. There wasn’t a soul in that stadium louder than mine, because I knew that if he could hear me out there, that old competitive flame inside his eyes would stoke itself again, remembering that no matter how good he was, I’d kick his ass when we got home, like I did after every other tournament he’d performed well in.

Three hours later, we were at the bar and all that energy I had expended came with receipts. I was exhausted and checking my phone for the time again and again. I gave the stupid champion a stupid look at his stupid empty glass and saw him ask for another, faking a royal accent and recounting to everyone who would listen about how he’d snatched victory from the jaws of defeat. I wanted to go home, but now I’d first have to take his drunk butt home. I stole his card and paid the tab, not letting them fill him with any more alcohol, and gently guided him to his car.

“You’re completely messed up,” I told him, closing the door behind him and getting into the driver’s seat. “Hand me your keys.”

“No, you’re messed up,” he told me, but obeyed. “And so’s your mother.” 

“You like my mother, dude. You can’t say that about her; what would she think of you?”

He stared at me dumb. The crown slid over his eyes. I rolled mine and started the car, keeping an eye on the clock. If I go straight home after this, I can read for a little bit before bringing him his car back in the morning.

Life had other plans. When I got to his house, I’d realized I left my keys at my apartment. I stared up at the stars, cursing them again, but this time one had the decency to dim a little bit in shame. I briefly considered that it would take decades for that star to even know what I was talking about given the limitations of causality, but I dismissed that thought with the belief that my glares could transcend space-time.

I looked at Robert’s keyring, only to discover that today it only included his car key. I came back to his car, but he wouldn’t rouse. I went through his pockets and found his phone, noting four missed calls from his girlfriend. I called her.

“Did you win?” she asked, right away. 

“Err. Yes. He’s schnockered,” I told her. “And I don’t have his house key. I can’t get him inside.”

“I have his house key, Dara. He was supposed to come here tonight, with you, remember? After the tournament? I had the house key to feed his cat while he was out tonight.”

Oh, right. I did remember that, but only after she remembered it for me. I looked at the clock. She lived an hour away, in the direction away from my apartment. I rolled my eyes at no one in particular, let out a sigh, and told her we’d be on the way.

“Would you pick up some milk for me while you’re out?”

I was never going to get to sleep tonight.

When we arrived, The Great One, as he’d since nicknamed himself in between adjusting his crown, was awake and lucid enough to walk on his own. I guided him up the steps and knocked on the door. She pointed him inside, and I began an exhausted walk back to the car.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she asked, grabbing my shoulder.

“Home,” I told her, “and I’m finally going to sleep.”

“It’s two in the morning. You’ll sleep at the wheel.”

“I’m not sure that’s a bad thing, at this point,” I replied, and felt it.

She turned me around, and handed me a mug. I sniffed it. Hot chocolate; my favorite.

“Come inside and drink this first, then you can go,” she commanded. It was impossible to say no to Jenna; she just bullied you until it became a yes. I obeyed, and she pointed me to the couch next to The Great One who was peacefully asleep once more.

I took a sip, not noticing her disappear and return with a set of blankets and pillows. She dropped a pillow under Robert’s head, who now looked much more comfortable. Then she dropped one behind my head, resulting in my protests.

“You’re staying here tonight,” she told me. “He doesn’t snore. I’ll turn out the lights.”

“I really, really want to get back to my hidey-hole, if that’s all right with you,” I told her, but as I did she pressed a book into my hands. Brother Odd.

“Shut up, read and go to sleep. I’ll see you guys in the morning.”

 Jenna’s known me for longer than I’ve known Robert. How she knew what I was reading tonight was anyone’s guess, but I suspect I’m not the only person who can get inside someone’s head.