Everything Changed

Four weeks ago, I was on my way to work, you know, typical Monday stuff, and everything changed in a wicked instant. Everything. My life was totally upended in a fraction of a second amid the squeal of burning rubber and the thunderous bellow of impact. Now, this is no tragedy, good people, far from it, in fact. Did I catch a bad break? I guess so. I could have died. Heck, I probably should have died, and my future is suddenly wildly uncertain. And yes, I'm a hard-working father of five who basically lives paycheck to paycheck. This is America in 2019, after all, and where finances are concerned, I'm poor from poor. Go ahead and put those tissues away, though, because I swear to you that this is a happy story. You see, finances are insignificant in the grand scheme of things, and dollars and cents aside, I'm stinking rich. I may well be poor from poor, but I'm also loved from loved, and despite that which could have or should have happened, I'm still here. After spending right at a month in the hospital, I'm at home with my wonderful wife and my precious children. Okay, my recovery is far from over, the pain is intense, and no one really knows just what I'll be capable of when this journey is complete, but life is good. Like I said, everything changed a month ago, but I'm alive, and my family, my friends, and my community are rallying behind me. People I don't even know are rallying behind me.

That Monday morning that now somehow feels like it was both eons ago and yet mere moments ago at the same time didn't seem like anything special. I got up at 5:00 a.m., like always (read: WAY TOO EARLY), and I had just about completed my thirty-minute trek to work when an oncoming vehicle swerved into my lane. Why? Good question. There really isn't a good answer to that question, not on that road, but from where I sit, it really doesn't matter. It happened. I was doing about 55 in my trusty 2005 Suzuki Reno (best $1200 I ever spent), and I'm guessing the other guy was doing about the same. He wasn't driving a Reno, though. He sat behind the wheel of a Tahoe, and for those of you keeping score, the final from that little showdown reads like this: Tahoe 1, Reno 0. 

I can remember the impact, which was kinda like taking a stiff jab from King Kong, and then there's a little gap. After that black hole in my recollection, I came to and felt nothing but gratitude. I was alive! This seemed like a miracle to me, because while I couldn't recall anything but the very onset of the crash, I knew that I had survived a head-on collision with a much larger vehicle. The notion that my wife and kids might have awoken to a knock at the door and some horrendous news loomed large in my mind, and I was so thankful that I hadn't perished on impact. That's the first thing that I recall, an overwhelming sense of gratitude. 

The second thing to ping on my radar was pain, and good and plenty of it. I'm talking pain on a scale that I couldn't have imagined prior to the accident. This monumental suffering prompted a gruesome survey. I glanced about the vehicle first, actually thinking that it would be prudent to locate my phone and call my wife to tell her that my day had taken a bit of a swerve. The phone was nowhere to be found, and I remember thinking that the interior of the car looked like a Dali painting. Broken glass was everywhere. The Reno appeared to have taken a direct hit from a bazooka. My cd player was sideways. And there was blood all over the place. Blood was dripping from my face, And as I continued to process my surroundings, I looked over at my left arm. It appeared to be broken into three or four pieces, and it was bleeding freely. Okay, let's be clear, it was a gusher. 

Time for some truth, good people. When I saw my arm, two things happened. First, the mystery of the colossal pain was solved. Just looking at my arm crystallized everything--that destroyed limb was the beacon broadcasting all that agony at full volume. Secondly, a dreadful certainty sank in. I figured I was a goner, my friends. I was surely going to bleed out. I wasn't going to see my lovely wife or my amazing children again. This realization hit me like a ton of bricks. I don't recall any sort of fear where my life was concerned, no despair or remorse festered on a personal level-- at that moment, my own hopes and dreams didn't hold any value. All I could think about was my family. This would crush them. We are a family of seven, and we are a tight-knit bunch. Things were going to be so hard for my wife. My children were going to have to grapple with a glaring absence, and I could hardly bear to think about just how much this would devastate them. 

But I wasn't dead yet, and I figured God had already dealt me one miracle, so I quickly concluded that there could be no harm in hoping (and working) for another. The pain was severe enough that I could have lost myself in hysterics, and it may have been significant enough that I could have just closed my eyes and passed out. I had an idea that it would have been that simple. But I was thinking of my family, and yes, I was praying and thinking about miracles too. I decided to focus on my breathing. This is something my sensei (I have enjoyed the privilege of learning Tae Kwon Do from the incomparable Randy Misketch and his spectacular family for five years now) has promoted at length, and while a few of my peers have occasionally snickered at these exercises, I've always been a believer. So I inhaled strength and courage, and I exhaled fear and doubt. And I found my center, and I took control of the situation. 

An EMT with a radio in hand showed up at what remained of my door. This seemed odd, because I didn't feel like a lot of time had elapsed, and I hadn't heard any sirens wailing or caught sight of any flashing lights. I calmly directed him to some work clothes in the back of my misshapen Reno and used them to create a makeshift compress, which I pressed against my arm in a desperate bid to slow the bleeding. Maybe I had some success on this front; I don't know, it felt like a losing battle, particularly where my bicep was concerned. I still had the impression that I had broken my arm badly in a few places, and I figured I had also severed an artery. As it turns out, I was right about the artery. While I waged this battle, the EMT used his radio to make it clear that we were dealing with heavy bleeding and the need for a tourniquet and additional treatment was dire. I tried to get out of the car and found that my legs and my right arm seemed to be functional even though the Suzuki was basically wrapped around me. The door hadn't fared as well, though, and neither my mangled arm or the twisted vehicle would allow me to find another exit. I was trapped.

Then there were sirens, and I heard an angry old woman shouting about reckless driving. She sounded like she was ready to fight, and I was glad that she was on my side and not vice-versa. A tourniquet was applied to my arm while I was still trapped in what remained of my Reno, which was further dismantled in short order as emergency personnel hustled to remove the door and then the roof. This happened very quickly, and my view was limited; I had been covered with a sheet to shield me from all the broken glass. In spite of this, I would pick little specks out of my hair for weeks. Before I knew it, I was being loaded on a stretcher by several strong hands. 

Another tourniquet was quickly applied in the ambulance as we raced down the highway. No one told me to stay awake like they do in the movies, but it seemed like the right thing to do. So, I kept on inhaling strength and courage and exhaling fear and doubt when I wasn't too busy praying. The pain had grown stronger, but my resolve seemed to be increasing as well. I remained calm, I stayed alert, and I obeyed every command promptly and answered every question posed with great clarity--and maybe a bit more detail than was necessary. I talked to avoid thinking about the pain or wondering how badly my favorite left arm had been damaged. My EMTs were skilled and dedicated, and this gave me hope, but the pain continued to roar as I continued to bleed--and the ride to the hospital seemed to take forever.

Finally, we hit the ground running (or, in my case, being wheeled into the hospital on a stretcher by people who were running) at New Hanover Regional Medical Center. I got passed around a bit, still lucid, praying, breathing in strength and courage and exhaling fear and doubt, answering questions as needed and chatting amicably (I can't remember any of them, but I did try a few jokes) when there were no questions, though such shortages proved rare. Then I found myself being prepared for surgery. No one had been able to get through to my wife, so I was alone, but I felt optimistic--I had done all I could do, and I had made it this far. Then I overheard one of my surgeons addressing an aide with a desperate plea: "Is there anyone we can reach? It's critical that his loved ones get a chance to see him before surgery." That didn't sound so good. Another prayer went up. Another gulp of strength and courage got sucked in. Honestly, I still felt optimistic, and I was still hurting something fierce. I figured we might as well roll the dice and see if this second miracle would take. I hoped to wake up with two arms and my wife at my side, and I couldn't stand much more pain. I went under the knife with gratitude. There's that word again. For a guy whose life was in doubt, I was finding gratitude at every turn. I think it was my faith, and maybe the fact that I grew up on a dirt road.

Some say the struggle is real. I say that it runs through my veins. I went under.

The second miracle landed. Surgeons saved my arm and my life. I came through feeling blessed, so very blessed. They gave me a breakdown of the damage, and I didn't even care, my spirits continued to soar. The tally included one ravaged left arm, a badly broken nose, a fractured orbital bone, and a broken kneecap--and an awful lot of lacerations and scrapes, most of which were relatively minor. Straight up, I felt like celebrating. Yes, the road to recovery would be long and difficult. Yes, the pain was ferocious. Yes, there was still so damn much to fret over, to include the dangers of infection and the possibility that my arm might still be lost, and the knowledge that I may not be able to use it even if I kept it throughout all that lay ahead. But I was alive. My wife and kids didn't have to endure that knock at the door and all that came with it. I felt so incredibly thankful. 

Speaking of my wife, who works nights and has her phone set to avoid alerts until 8 a.m., she finally got that phone call while I was undergoing my first surgery. I would undergo five more surgeries during my three weeks at NHRMC. Since there was very little she could be told during that first call aside from the fact that I was in surgery, she drove to the hospital scared out of her mind. She has been by my side ever since, and in the last week, her duties have increased dramatically due to my being discharged from the hospital. In addition to managing my meds and working diligently to keep me as clean and as comfortable as possible, she mans my IV. She does pin care for me twice a day (I left the hospital with a stabilizing rod in my arm), and that is no easy feat. Thankfully for me, she is a strong and amazing woman, and she feels like God has used this experience to call upon her. She is beginning the journey toward being a nurse. So I'm in good hands, good people. My wife is a treasure, and I could never deserve her, but that's old news. I can't imagine trying to weather this storm without her.

The early stages were really hairy. Every trip to the bathroom felt like a round with Drago. Sleep lurked safely beyond my grasp, and a guy who lives paycheck to paycheck with a family of seven to fend for found himself on the shelf, wondering if he would be able to resume his job whenever this unexpected journey comes to an end. The prognosis was grim. The damage my left arm had been subjected to and the required treatment were both more in line with what physicians would see and recommend for a victim of a shark attack. No, my bones had not been broken or dislocated, but I had lost all that skin and tissue, to include all of my ligaments in my elbow, and the joint itself was completely exposed, drastically increasing my risk of infection. Still, I couldn't help but recall that hellacious impact, and the devastation it had wrought upon my beloved little Reno. I felt lucky. I could look at my wife and children and think about that knock at the door we avoided, and my heart would swell with gratitude. I did my best to share my appreciation with all the terrific doctors, nurses, and aides who tended to me in my time of need, offering them all the praise and thanks I could give voice to. It really seemed to touch many of them, and I was proud to do my best to lift up these hard-working people who have devoted themselves to helping others. And I kept at it with the jokes. A few of them hit the mark.

During my stay in the hospital, I would learn that I had been far luckier than I realized. While my ability* to emerge mostly intact from a vehicle that looked like it had been stepped on by Godzilla remained largely unexplained, there was a reason help had arrived at the scene with such haste. It would also explain why I saw an EMT before I heard any sirens or beheld any flashing lights. My accident had happened within a hundred yards or of the rescue squad and fire department in Riegelwood. They actually heard the wreck, and they came running. Without that particular break (and that is a monumental break, wouldn't you agree?), there is little doubt that I wouldn't have made it out of the car. I got another good break in that our hometown hospital is nothing short of phenomenal, with ortho ranking among their specialties. The surgeon who performed my pivotal first operation did a superb job, getting me off to a great start. 

So now, this fortunate and grateful dude is back home. My arm has that pesky stabilizing rod in it, and I'm wearing a giant immobilizing brace on my knee. I'm still on an IV as we work to avoid infection, and my wife does pin care on the stabilizing rod twice a day. I have one wound vac** change per week at home with a nurse's assistance, and I do the same thing once per week at the doctor's office. I am working toward a skin graft, but at present, I don't have enough skin at the wound site (my elbow) to support a graft. How long until we get there? Like many things, that is still up in the air. Could be four weeks, could be four months. Could be longer. Once we do the graft, provided the graft takes, we'll allow that time enough to heal, and then we'll do another surgery, and the doctors will repair my elbow. Yes, the joint is intact, but it won't function minus all those ligaments that I lost. Infection is still my biggest threat, and while we've come so far, a single bad break could send us back to square one. 

Once that repair takes place, I can throw myself into physical therapy, which will surely represent a battle, though I assure you all that I'm up to the challenge. Provided there are no setbacks along the way, what should I expect from my arm? Again, my future is uncertain. One thing is clear: a full recovery is not in the cards. Beyond that, some physicians have stated that I'll get pretty damn close to a full recovery while others have cautioned that I might not be able to do much at all with my arm. My job as an NDT technician requires me to perform vigorous inspections on welds in hard to reach places. It's a dangerous gig, with much of the work taking place at considerable heights. We do a lot of work in confined spaces. There's a lot of climbing involved, and there's a lot of crawling. There are volatile chemicals, radiation, and a host of other risk factors to contend with, great and small. It's physically demanding. It requires brains. It requires caution, diligence, and the ability to conquer your fears, as well as the ability to interpret and organize data, to engineer solutions and record our findings. It's quirky, truth be told, and for some reason, I dig it. And I won't be able to do it unless my left arm is at 75% or better in terms of function. My kids love softball and baseball, and I cherish pitching and catching with them. We enjoy those excellent Se Jong Tae Kwon Do classes together as a family. My life as I know it is hanging in the balance, good people.

But that's okay. I'm lucky to be here, and I'm optimistic. I think I'm going to get 75% or more out of this arm--and if I don't, I'll be okay. I still have so many reasons for gratitude that it would be pointless to try and list them all. However, some praise is most assuredly warranted here. I would start with my God, who has surrounded me with love and support. I would then point to the family I treasure and the friends who have my back like a jacket. Our church family at Pine Valley Baptist Church truly rocks, and the same could be said for both our martial arts family and our softball family. I need to dish out some props to my company and all of my exceptional co-workers. And I would not proceed here without alluding to my community at large and even all of those strangers who have thrown their weight behind me. We have a fundraiser that is going strong, we've been showered with donations, meals, and gifts. People have watched our children and helped us transport them to practice or church. Friends have moved furniture for us and tended to our lawn. We have been awed and humbled by the assistance we have received. Last but surely not least, I would single out my wife. She's my best friend, and she's the best person I have ever known.

Kristen has helped me every step of the way, and we're taking things one day at a time, rising to every challenge, embracing every success, and accepting any setbacks with grace. God is with us, and so are you, and we're going to win this one. 

You can support our fundraiser on Facebook here. Every donation helps, and even a simple share is greatly appreciated. Your prayers and thoughts are welcome; I am a man of faith, and even if I wasn't, it would be hard to discredit the power of prayer in light of my experience. My journey is far from over. My future remains uncertain, but I am blessed, and I continue to find gratitude at every turn. Honestly, I'm compelled to do another round of thank yous. I thank God again for allowing me to make it this far, and I thank him for giving me hope that the recovery I'm working toward will be our next miracle. I want to thank my wife for being nothing short of amazing. I could spend all day thanking her for being my wife, and it would not be enough. I want to thank my children for being the wind beneath my wings and the joy that dances within my merry soul. I want to thank my family and friends for supporting us and lifting us up in amazing ways. I want to thank our church family once more for being there whenever and wherever we need them, and showering us with love. I want to thank our Tae Kwon Do family and our softball family for helping us as much as they possibly can, and going above and beyond any and all reasonable expectations in their support. I would also thank the community at large once more, to include all those lovely folks I don't personally know from near and far who have joined themselves to our cause--these giving souls should be noted again for the aid and encouragement they have directed our way. I thank the skilled people at New Hanover for getting me this fair, and I stand ready for whatever tomorrow may bring with the knowledge that I am blessed and loved far more than I could have imagined before Monday, July 15.

That's when I nearly died, but more importantly, that's when everything changed for me, because that's when I learned the true meaning of gratitude. Thank you all so very much, and God bless.

*Those who know me well understand that I take my fitness seriously. I lead an active life, and my job is strenuous. Being in shape is very important to me. Several physicians have advised me that my conditioning likely played a key role in my initial survival. Leading up to the crash, I was a bit fanatical about ramping up my workouts, often to my wonderful wife's chagrin. A few people had taken note of this, and I had responded that I didn't know what fight I was training for, but I fully intended to be ready. Well, I guess that's just another good break, as it turns out, and there's no longer any mystery about my opponent.

**A wound vac is a machine that pumps fluid out of an open wound. With my elbow, it was useful in the early stages as a means to avoid infection. At present, it is more beneficial because it stimulates skin growth, so it's helping me as I work toward that skin graft.

Dirty Southside Jam (Kickstarter details and an excerpt)

 As I work to publish my second novel, Dirty Southside Jam, I have started a fundraiser on Kickstarter.  Obviously, I would be grateful for your support, so I'm providing a link here:

 Dirty Southside Jam on Kickstarter

You can learn all about the book and my goals for the fundraiser, as well as contribute, just by clicking that link.  Just think: you would be helping a starving artist to take the next step toward putting food on the table for three hungry children and one pregnant wife.  For the record, the kids are well-fed, but as anyone who has children can attest, they're almost always hungry.  Anyway, I wanted to provide you with something more here, so I'm going to drop the basic hook for Dirty Southside Jam and an excerpt on you.  I'm giving you the first chapter, and even if you don't elect to chip in and support me, any and all feedback is welcome.

Thanks, peeps!  You know I'd do it for you.

So, what's Dirty Southside Jam about?  It goes something like this:

Billie Boyd, better known to the good people of Bogut as Blue, is the kind of guy whose luck only comes in one flavor. Sometimes it seems that his entire life has been punctuated by one bad break after another, but that's okay. He's a simple guy at heart, a man who has learned not to expect much. Everything changes when Blue finds a small fortune and decides to keep it, believing that his luck has finally turned.

He should have known better.

Now, good old Blue is at odds with a drug-peddling brute, a ruthless killer, and a corrupt lawman. His only ally is an aging drifter who likes to smoke pot and drive fast.  A man who never asked for much has bitten off way more than he can chew, and it's becoming painfully obvious that his next bad break will definitely be his last.

Now, here's a sneak peek at the first chapter.  Enjoy!

-        

Chapter One: Good Old Blue

Billie Boyd was enjoying another leisurely night at Cinema City.  Lately, leisurely nights were all the place had to offer.  Billie was better known to the people of Bogut as “Blue” and he was a quiet fellow who seemed to give off a bit of warmth, an intriguing outsider who was very comfortable in his own skin.

The lean projectionist was in the lobby, wiping down the counters with a rag that was old and worn.  Blue had long hair that he sometimes pulled back in a ponytail, but tonight it was hanging in his face as he worked.  Blue had never been employed anywhere else and the theater was like a second home to him, but he didn’t think it would last much longer.

The failing cinema had once been regarded as a terrific place to catch a movie.  Twenty years ago it was undoubtedly the local hot spot, particularly when a true blockbuster was playing.  In those days, the parking lot was often so full that late arrivals had to park at the pizzeria down the hill and hoof it from there. 

Blue had made that journey on numerous occasions in his time, but nobody had a hard time finding a parking spot these days.  The old theater was barely turning a profit and the parking lot was mostly empty, even on weekends. 

Cinema City had fallen into a sad state of disarray and it was getting worse with every day that passed.  The carpet was old and dirty, fraying in some places and stained in others.  In one spot the red wallpaper had peeled back to expose a filthy yellow expanse of drywall.   The video games lining the lobby were a primitive array of battered shells housing unheralded titles.

Blue watched as an old man approached the front of the cinema to study the posters advertising the movies they were playing.  The old man lingered in front of each sheet, trying to muster up some enthusiasm, but nothing caught his fancy.   Grimacing, he turned and walked away. 

Blue sighed.  He loved this place, and it pained him to watch it wither away right before his very eyes.  They hadn’t added any new features to their bill for three weeks in a row, a drought that would hamper any cinema’s business.   In fact, this was the worst Saturday night Blue had ever been on hand for.

They had sold a whopping sum of fourteen tickets for the three seven o’clock shows.  To make matters worse, the concession stand hadn’t made so much as a dime after the movies started.  Unfortunately, this was typical of late, as Cinema City was mired in a lingering slump that had Barry contemplating doing away with the latest show on each day aside from Friday and Saturday.  If it came to that, things were definitely coming to a halt sooner rather than later. 

Blue had held his job since he was in high school and he had always displayed a loyalty to the place that was inexplicable and wholly undeserved.  Barry made it clear that he liked Blue and appreciated his efforts, but he wasn’t about to provide a raise that matched his praise.   He seldom gave his star employee enough hours and the old coot was always too busy ogling the young females who operated the concession stand to truly appreciate Blue’s efforts. 

When Barry finally got tired of scraping by and decided to close the doors for good, Blue would have to move on to something else.    Until then he was getting paid for doing almost nothing, which was nice, but maybe it would be wise for him to start looking at other options. 

The next job he took would certainly be more difficult.  He had it made at Cinema City.  Most nights he spent far more time reading whichever book he was currently devoted to than attending to the patrons or the projectors.  Currently, he was plowing through an old copy of North Dallas Forty by Peter Gent.  His copy of the novel came complete with yellow pages and a musty odor.  It was one of his all-time favorites and it frequently inspired him to laugh out loud.

Later, after all the shows had let out, Blue finished his work upstairs in the booth, which was actually a large room.  He deftly threaded each film through the projector for the next shift, his fingers dancing through the process, his mind elsewhere.   Once he had assured himself that everything was in order with a cursory walk-through, he went to the box and shut down all of the appropriate breakers in rapid succession.  He went downstairs, set the alarm, and exited through the side door. 

Blue strolled over to his car, enjoying the crisp night air.  Some people seemed unable to shake their fear of the dark, but he had always enjoyed the night.

Blue drove a 1992 Toyota Tercel that had a heart of gold.  He had owned four cars and each vehicle aside from the Tercel had proven to be a total piece of shit.  He hadn’t called any of the others anything aside from random curse words, but the burgundy Tercel he had dubbed “Martha” and he treated this particular lady with tremendous affection. 

The old girl was rugged and dependable.  He had owned the vehicle for six years and she was steadily approaching three hundred thousand miles.  Blue was determined to take her to that plateau and beyond.  To date,  she had avoided major repairs. 

“That’s another one in the books, Martha,” Blue said as he climbed in.  He was smiling, but that wasn’t unusual.  Blue smiled a lot.  

Good old Blue.

Maybe his story is a triumph of sorts, but then again it could be a tragedy.  It’s a tale that begins and ends on a winding stretch of country road in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains.   That ornery strip of asphalt is called McClusky Lane, except when referred to as plain old State Route 79 (often reduced to a raspy old 79) by those who have lived in Bogut long enough. 

They like to spin yarns about old 79 in these parts, and those yarns are frequently bloody nightmares that yield restless nights.  Many of them are true, or at least based in truth, for on McClusky Lane the straights are long and narrow and the twists come fast and hard.  The road begins winding about the foothills like a frightened serpent before skirting the lake, drawing perilously close to the water’s edge.  Later, long after most of the traffic has filtered onto other roads, it crosses Cold Rock Creek via a rickety covered bridge that has created concern amongst the populace for decades.  Thus far the decrepit wooden structure has held, but all the old-timers agree that it won’t be long before the whole thing takes a bath.

They’re probably right about that, and someone is bound to go with it.  Those old-timers know the lay of the land, and they also know the history of these parts.  McLusky Lane is a mean stretch of pavement indeed, a dangerous country corridor itching for blood.  In most places there’s a similar stretch of highway, a winding road in a lonely hollow with a few twists too many and just enough room for reckless youngsters to build speed and momentum.  Like those other passages in those other places, McLusky Lane has claimed far too many lives. 

It’s notorious not only for a number of horrific accidents, but also for a history rich with stories about moonshine, exciting tales of hotshot runners racing against the law and taking big chances on that devilish road.  There are a few major players whose names are familiar to all those who call Bogut home, and virtually everyone living in these parts still has some kin with access to a working still.  White Lightning has always been a welcome addition to any shindig in Bogut, and there’s seldom enough to suit everyone. 

Blue preferred pot, but he could never pass on a jar when it was offered. 

He hated the road, though, hated it with a passion.  He agreed with the old-timers on that score.  While some people scoffed at the road’s reputation and wondered how the locals could lend a strip of asphalt such personality, Blue was intimately familiar with the woeful history of McLusky Lane.  He had survived his ordeal, but he was a victim nonetheless.   

He was only eight years old when the accident happened, but he could remember it vividly.  It was never going to go away, he was certain of that.  No matter how hard he tried to force the episode into the darkest recesses of his mind, those memories were always crawling out to confront him at his weakest moments.

He was going for a ride with his older brother when a deer bolted across the road in front of them and Ronnie panicked.  Billie screamed as his brother yanked the wheel too hard, sending his rugged little Jeep into a dangerous slide that quickly became a violent roll.  The Jeep went off the shoulder and tumbled down into a ravine, flipping four times in the process.

When it ended, Billie was lying against the door with pieces of his brother in his lap.  He was drenched in Ronnie’s blood and the wreck had imprisoned him within the vehicle.  Physically he went virtually unharmed, but the mental anguish he suffered was almost too much for him to endure.

He was trapped in the wreckage for nearly four hours before they got him out, the stench of blood filling his nostrils as the wet warmth of Ronnie’s remains pressed against him.  Gradually the sticky lumps of meat that had once been his brother grew cold. 

It would be nice if he couldn’t recall that period of time, if it was lost in a fog, horrifying yet shapeless, a formless nightmare from the past.  Unfortunately that just wasn’t the case.  It was still all too real to him even after all this time.  His mind hadn’t drifted into shock or provided any distractions in the form of hallucinations.  His memories were vivid, a gruesome record of that terrible ordeal that had yet to fade and likely never would.

He had sat there, drenched in blood, pieces of Ronnie all over the place, the grim horror of reality refusing to release him into any sort of sanctuary.  Time had never passed so slowly, each moment stretching into an eternity, the hours crawling past like days.  His spirit broke and his hold on his sanity crumbled during that hellish passage. 

When they pulled him out of the mangled Jeep, he told the paramedics exactly what had happened, describing the accident in great detail.  Then he lapsed into silence and closed his eyes.  He couldn’t remember things so well for a while after that. 

It was better than six months before he spoke so much as a word and nearly a year before he spoke at any length about Ronnie or the accident.  He seldom talked at all and he began keeping to himself.  Some of the kids starting calling him “Little Blue Boy” and the nickname stuck.  Time whittled it down to “Blue” and he never resisted.  He didn’t particularly like the moniker, but he didn’t dislike it enough to object.  After a while, it become part of him. 

He found himself thinking about the wreck more and more these days, but he kept pushing it away.  It was far easier to find distractions than to contemplate that horrid experience.  It was over and he had suffered enough.  He had moved on a long time ago and he needed to forget it. 

Blue shook his head and grimaced.  Some things were easier said than done.

The sky above was speckled with twinkling stars and the breeze was gentle.  It was a nice night for September.  Blue drove with his window down, listening to a cassette tape he had purchased at the flea market for a dollar a few weeks ago.  It was the timeless Outlandos D’Amour from The Police, a bargain at any price, and Blue was quickly wearing it out. 

He was only a few miles down the road when he spotted David Blanchard walking along the side of the road with his olive bag slung across his shoulder.  David was an old salt who had pulled three tours in Nam after earning quite a reputation for running moonshine in these hills when he was but a pup.  Most folks around here knew who he was, and aside from those wearing badges, most felt he was a good enough guy. 

The current sheriff was a chubby prick named Arthur Leopold III.  He had been sheriff for nearly a decade and his daddy had owned the post before his beefy son took his place.  Some time before that, his grandfather had been sheriff, but his time in office was cut short in a gruesome accident on McLusky Lane. 

He was chasing a young David Blanchard at the time. 

The first Arthur Leopold was pitched through his windshield and slammed headfirst into a tree at something like seventy miles per hour when he came into a sharp turn running hot and didn’t have the mustard to bring his good old Ford around.  His hat was found some sixty feet from his body.   

And so it was no secret that the current sheriff despised the old vagrant, and surely there were those who didn’t blame him, though in a place like Bogut most of the populace preferred a man who ran moonshine to a man sporting a tin star.     

Blue didn’t think much of Leopold, but then he didn’t think much of any of the authority figures he had dealt with.  In his opinion, most people who were given any small measure of power ceased with deliberation and began acting on impulse.  David, on the other hand, was all right as far as Blue was concerned.  Leopold wasn’t going to mess with the old drifter if Blue could help it.  He had given the old vet a ride on several occasions for the same reason, and the dude sometimes smoked him out in return for the trip.

They shook hands and Blue asked the old drifter where he was going.

“Nowhere in particular,” David said.

“That’s one of my favorite destinations.”  Blue put his foot on the gas and Martha rumbled ahead, slicing through the night. 

David settled back in his seat, stretching his legs, making himself comfortable. 

Blue found his mind slipping toward the past again, taking him to another episode from his youth that involved that wretched road.  The man sitting beside him was also a player in this memory.

When he was a kid, long before anyone ever called him anything but Billie, he had invited a friend over to spend the night.  This was when he and his family lived on a dirt road just off of McLusky Lane. 

Billie and his friend had decided to go for a walk and shortly thereafter the two of them were a few miles from home, heading toward the lake.  They were walking along McLusky Lane, approaching the boat ramp and enjoying the nice day as they went.  They were talking about comic books when a weaving truck sped by, nearly careening into them. 

            Suddenly the truck slid to a stop, pelting them with gravel.  As they looked on in mute terror, a stocky old man with a silver crewcut and a scraggly white beard lurched out, barreling toward them with a club in his hand.

            “Did you give me the finger, boy?”  He bellowed as he advanced, his eyeballs swelling in their sockets until it appeared they would burst.

            It occurred to Billie later that they should have run.  Though imposing, the madman was old and built for power, not speed.  They could have eluded him with ease, but foolish children that they were, they had stood there, frozen in the grip of terror.  Blue and his friend were practically rooted to the ground as the stranger approached with his barbaric weapon, his pupils so big they looked like black checkers to the frightened boys.

            “Huh?  Did you?  Did you flip me off, son?”

            Billie didn’t know if the man was addressing him or his friend, but neither had made any gesture whatsoever, so he said just that.

            “Bullshit, brat!  I’ll teach you to give me the damn finger.”

            He was poised to strike when David Blanchard came out of nowhere, calmly approaching this roaring menace with his arms before him, his palms facing outward.  Billie would never forget the way the drifter looked on that day, his black hair pulled back into a ponytail, his beard thick and unruly, his worn combat jacket providing a stark contrast to his red flannel shirt.

            “It’s okay,” David said in a soothing voice, almost as though he were dealing with an animal.  “We have a misunderstanding here, man, that’s all.  Let’s make sure no one gets hurt.”

            The man with the club sneered, but he lowered the club.  “Who are you?”

            “I’m no one,” David said flatly, “No one at all.”

            “The fuck did you come from?”

            “Nowhere,” David said in a soft tone.  “It doesn’t matter, anyway.  Everything’s cool.”

            As young Billie watched the two men talk, he was sure that if the surly man with the club made the wrong move, David was going to tear him to peaces.  There was nothing in the vet’s manner or stance to suggest this ferocity, but young Billie sensed it lurking just beneath the surface.

            In the end, nothing grave happened.  David talked things out with the man and that old nutjob actually apologized before leaving.  Billie and his friend were quick to depart as well, curtly thanking David and setting off with quite the tale for their chums. 

It had been a long time since Blue thought about that incident, but it passed through his thoughts as his trusty car raced through the darkness tonight, David Blanchard riding shotgun.   The strip of pavement framed in the glare of his headlights was as a grey blur churning beneath them. 

            He suddenly felt the need to discuss the episode.  “When I was a child,” he began, “I was attacked by a man with a club-“

            “I remember,” David interrupted, a tired voice emitting from somewhere within his tangled mess of a beard.  His thick unruly hair hung about his shoulders, his grey locks frayed and dirty from a lack of grooming.  “I remember just fine. Never could figure why the two of you didn’t just run, but I remember the whole thing well enough.”

            “You knew that was me?”

            David smiled and took a joint from his pocket, lighting it with a devilish grin.  The aroma of marijuana, tantalizingly sweet and unmistakably pungent, filled the Tercel.  “Of course I knew it was you, boy.  Of course I did.  The real question is what did that crazy old bugger have a club for?  Really now, who carries a club?”  The old drifter shook his head and laughed.

            Blue was surprised.  They had never discussed anything of great importance before, but this acknowledgement seemed to suggest a far deeper bond than Blue had imagined.  What was his value to this strange old bird?

            After several deep drags on the joint and few rattling coughs, David passed the joint to Blue.  He provided a sound imitation of his predecessor in this regard.  Almost at once, the warmth began to spread through him and his body began to relax.  The Police were still tearing it up in Martha’s cassette player, and the old stoner took note.

            “This is back when The Police were the shit,” David said, smiling as he lost himself in the music.  “They had their own sound.  I suppose it was only a matter of time before one of the guys got uppity.  I just never imagined it would have been Sting.”  The old drifter laughed.  He took the joint from Blue and took two big hits in rapid succession before continuing.  “I mean, who would have thought?  What are the chances of a guy named Sting having an ego?  Especially if he’s a revelation on bass and he’s got a pair of pipes fit for an angel.”

            Blue felt the need to say something, but he didn’t know what he could possibly offer. “I’m really enjoying this album,” he said.  He was clearly out of his depth.

            David pressed on.  “Truly gifted.  But he never did anything to rival this one.  Or maybe Reggatta De Blanc.  That’s the one with Message in a Bottle.  Nothing in his solo career could touch The Police.  They had their own sound, man.”

            “You already said that,” Blue said, wishing he hadn’t.

            “Well, maybe I said it twice because I wanted to make sure you got the point.  I mean, a man driving around with Outlandos D’Amour in his tape player should understand these things.  The Police weren’t some addition to some scene, man.  They were a scene.  They had their own thing going.  You dig?”

            “I get it.  I got it.  I’m the one who bought the cassette tape.  I’m listening to it, aren’t I?”

            “No, that’s what I’m trying to tell you.  You may be listening to The Police, but you aren’t hearing The Police.  Not yet, anyway.”

            An uneasy silence followed, broken only by Martha’s steady hum and The Police’s efforts on Next To You.  Before long, Blue’s mind drifted to the past again, taking him back to that strange episode on the side of the road.  “Why-“ he began, but it was a question that would go unanswered. 

Later, Blue would be unable to recall what he was going to ask.  He would remember little of what had transpired leading up to the accident.  Had they shared something?  That gentle moment before the storm would be lost forever in the glare of headlights and the scream of burning rubber. 

            For the second time in his life, Blue was part of the dance as steel met steel and flesh collided with machinery in a pulverizing display of power.  Once again, he screamed as he was thrown forward, his wail drowned out by a metallic squeal that filled the night.