Miracles and Steve Largent -- A Short

The crisp Autumn afternoon air forces me to pause and catch my breath as I step through the automatic doors and onto the sidewalk in front the hospital. My ears continue to ring -- like a gun has just been fired next to my right ear -- as I look up and down this quiet, small town street. I watch a red sedan, driven by a small man with white hair, pass slowly in front of me. I feel the falling sun against my cheek and breathe in the smell of a nearby wood burning fireplace. I look around and find two large potted plants to either side of the walk and for a moment I consider throwing up on one of them. My heart is boxing the inside of my chest with the speed of a flyweight champion. My legs wobble as I steal a glance back through the hospital doors.

"I'm gonna take a walk." I say to no one in particular before staggering off the sidewalk and down the street.

The mountain breeze has a sting to it and I zip my softshell jacket up around my neck to block it out. I walk down Adams Avenue -- I see it in white lettering on a green sign as I cross through an empty intersection. It's an avenue that is etched in childhood memories but is surreal and foreign on this day. I look up at the Cascade foothills that loom just beyond the rooftops around me and I swallow hoarsely. The golden, copper and ruby colored leaves glow against the backdrop of the Evergreens. This was once my favorite time of the year, I think to myself.

The doctor's voice echos in my head but already I cannot remember his words, only his tone and the long pauses between his sentences. A shiver, riding a gust of wind, finds its way underneath my jacket to run down the back of my neck. I picture my wife lying on a table with blood stained sheets between her legs; I picture the still form of a fetus being stolen away and I clinch my teeth to hold in the scream that has caught in my throat. There is a church ahead on the corner, its steeple pointing sharply like a middle finger to the sky. Not knowing where else to go, I point my steps in the direction of the hauntingly dark stainglass windows that cover the building.

The church parking lot is deserted and I suddenly find it difficult to stay on my feet. I find a curb and collapse to it. And then I see them, two boys playing in the empty field next to the church. From this distance they look to be twelve or so, although one is slightly taller than the other. They have a football and, play-by-play, they work their way from one end of the leaf covered field to the other. The smaller one hikes the ball to the taller one and then runs in a pattern. The taller one backs up a few steps, pumps his arm once and then throws the ball up against the backdrop of the setting sun. I watch as the smaller one then runs underneath the long pass. They repeat this again and again, frantically "marching" up and down this field against some unseen opponent; their feet kicking up a trail of golden leaves behind them as they play. I can hear the muffled sounds of the older boy announcing the score, the down, the time left on the game clock, the pass, the yards gained -- every angle of their private game.

But then they notice me.. quietly taking in their performance from the sideline. They watch me for a moment and then the smaller one scampers over in my direction.

"Hi, Mister." He says as he gets close. "Can you play with us?" I try to respond but my voice fails me. There is only the howl of the wind and the distant hum of logging trucks on the highway.

"We could use someone to play defense. Please." He says.

"OK." I say. "Just for a couple plays." I say.

"Alright!" He says and then he turns and runs back toward the taller boy. "He's gonna play!" I hear him yell as he runs away from me.

Slowly I pick myself off the curb and walk toward the two boys. They are huddled up with the ball sitting on the ground a few feet away. The taller one draws a line in the palm of his hand and the smaller one nods excitedly.

"So what's the score here?" I say. They finish their huddle with a synchronized clap and turn toward me.

"It's Super Bowl XL." Says the taller one.

"You're the Pittsburgh Steelers." Says the smaller one. "You can be Troy Polamalu." He says.

"I'm Matt Hasselbeck." Says the taller one. "And my brother is Bobby Engram."

"Am not!" Says the smaller one. "I told you, I'm Steve Largent!"

"Steve Largent retired before you were born." Says the taller one. "He wasn't even in the Super Bowl."

"I don't care." Says the smaller one. "Dad says he was the greatest of all time... And I'm gonna be the greatest, just like him." He says.

I smile in spite of my day. "OK." I say. "Hasselbeck and Largent... What's the score?" They both turn back toward me, letting the debate go for now.

"Steelers are up twenty-one to seventeen." Says Hasselbeck. "There's three seconds left in the fourth quarter and it's Seattle's ball, fourth down, at the Steelers thirty yard-line."

"This play is for all the stuff'n!" Says Largent.

My eyes are watering, mostly from the wind. "Let's do this." I say to the brothers.

Largent leans over the ball, looks left and then looks right. Hasselbeck calls out, "Blue thirty-two! Blue thirty-two!" Largent points to me with his free hand, I suppose to make sure one of his imaginary linemen remember to pick me up in case I blitz. "Hut one!" Calls out Hasselbeck. Largent lowers his head and looks back between his legs to Hasselbeck. "Hut two!" Calls out Hasselbeck, raising his right leg in the air and planting it back down in a fluid motion. And then the smaller one hikes the ball and bursts past me.

"Hasselbeck is back to pass." Says the taller one. "The Seattle offensive line picks up the blitz." He says. "Hasselbeck looks left into double coverage." He says. "Nothing there. Hasselbeck scrambles out to his right. He has a man wide open down the sideline!" He says. I watch as he plants his feet and coils his right arm back. "With time running out... Hasselbeck throws deep..." He arches his body and then unleashes the deep ball down field. I turn and watch as the smaller one tracks the flight of the ball from the ground below. His legs find another gear as he runs down the deep pass. Then, as the ball sets on the horizon like the late afternoon sun, Largent launches out above the field, his body perfectly parallel to the ground, his arms reaching out for the football. "Largent dives for the pass!" Says the taller one from behind me. Time slows and I hold my breath as Largent plucks the ball from mid-air, tucks the ball under his chin and then crashes down onto the field of leaves.

"Touchdown!" Screams the taller one. "Touchdown! Touchdown Seahawks!" He yells. I look back to him. He has his arms raised high and he runs past me and toward his brother. "Do you believe in miracles?" He yells out. "The Seattle Seahawks have just defeated the Pittsburgh Steelers in Super Bowl XL!" He yells. "I don't believe what I just saw!" He yells. I can't help myself. I raise my arms above me and let out a yell of my own as the two brothers run and collide with each other in celebration. "I don't believe what I just saw!" Yells Hasselbeck one more time. The three of us run from one end of the field to the other as the sunlight drains from the sky and the words repeat in my head, again and again. "I don't believe what I just saw..."

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The long dining table stretches out from one end of the room to the other. My wife and I sit alone at one end, the backs of our chairs pressed up against the wall. Our family sit in front of us. Their conversations are warm; their faces are bright. But I can only stare at the thermostat on the far wall, wishing that there was enough room at my side of the table to take off my wool sweater. I roll my sleeves up as far as they will go and pull at my neckline. I watch my wife as she stares at the large cooked bird on the table top. She is a vegetarian and I imagine that if she had the energy she might pull at the neck of her sweater too.

"There is a family tradition in this house." Says my dad from the other side of the table. My mom comes in from the kitchen and sets down two more trays of food before sitting next to him. My dad continues to talk. I watch my wife's blank stare and feel my chest twist on itself underneath this damn sweater. I picture her in another time -- her smile, her laugh. I watch her now and I wonder how long it will be until either of us can smile, really smile, again.

"Son." My dad's voice pulls me back to the dinner table in front of me. "Would you start this year?" He asks me. He smiles warmly and for a moment I think about telling him, telling them all. Instead I take a deep breath and pull at my neckline again. I think for a moment about what I can possibly say on this day. They all watch me and wait for me to say something, all except for my wife who still stares blankly at the dead meat on the table in front of her.

"Tell us what you are thankful for this year, son." Says my dad. I reach under the table and take my wife's hand in my own. She squeezes my hand, blinks and takes a sip of apple cider from the crystal glass next to her plate. I raise my head and look around the table at them.

"I'm thankful for my family." I say. They all smile. "My wife." I say. They all smile again and look at her. I pause for a moment. My wife squeezes my hand again under the table.

"I'm thankful for miracles." I say. My throat tightens and my eyes blur with moisture. "I'm thankful for Matt Hasselbeck. And for Steve Largent." I say. They look at each other and my dad shrugs.

"I'm sorry." I say. "I know it's random. But it's what I'm thankful for on this particular day." I say. "For miracles... and for Steve Largent."

My wife slips her arm inside of mine and we hold each other softly at the end of my parents' dining room table. I look out their window at the night and think about the winter season that is coming. I lean in and kiss my wife lightly on the neck. It won't last forever, I tell myself. Spring will come, I tell myself. And maybe this can even be my favorite time of year again. Maybe someday, I tell myself.

Someday.

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A Loaded Gun -- A Short

What Sean hated most about this place was the fog. He watched it with a blank stare as it stole the outside world into a heavy, wet, purgatory existence. Occasionally he could see a pair of muffled headlights as a car slowly floated from window to window. Sean blinked and shook his head. With a deep breath he turned back to the cold Heineken in front of him. He sipped his beer while he finished closing out the open tabs from the night. He was scribbling down the totals for the day when his cell phone buzzed on top of the bar.

"Jason." He said. "What's up my man?"

It had been a good day, he thought. The bar had grossed over six hundred more than their average from the last couple years.

"Yeah, I'm still here." He said. "Just finishing things up."

Sean looked over at the clock on the wall behind the bar and nodded. Bar-time read a quarter to four.

"Yeah, for sure dude. C'mon down. I was gonna have another beer anyway." He paused. "Is everything OK?" He asked. He scowled and looked back to his beer. "Alright." He said. I'll see you in a few."

After pounding the rest of his Heineken Sean stepped into the walk-in and grabbed another bottle, then slammed the heavy door shut again. On his way back out to the front of the bar he reached his left hand into the office and killed the remaining two lights out front. Despite the fog outside, he couldn't help but smile to himself as he stepped out from behind the bar and sat down on a bar stool. Save the constant buzz of the cooler, there was only silence. The white Christmas lights that lit up the windows and the brick hearth downstairs gave off just enough light to fill the room with a soft glow. The effect was disarming but did little to ease his mind about the phone call from Jason. As he cracked open his beer he thought of calling Amy. But not wanting to wake her, he decided to enjoy these rare moments of silence alone.

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The first thing that Sean noticed about his roommate when he met him at the back door were his red eyes and smeared cheeks. And then that he was visibly shaking. It seemed to him that Jason was on the verge of collapsing to his feet at any second. What he did not notice was his friend's right hand and what dangled from it.

"Yo, Jay." He said, moving aside so that his friend could step past him. Sean swung the door shut and latched it.

"You look like you could use a drink." Sean said. Jason looked around at his friend's bar. Sean watched him, thinking it odd how lost his roommate looked in such a familiar place.

"I think I need to sit down." Jason said quietly.

"For sure." Sean said.

Sean could feel his arms tingle and his breath tighten as the two settled into the closest booth. But it wasn't until his friend dropped the forty-five caliber on the table between them that Sean realized his fears. The silence that followed the heavy knock of the metal gun on the oak table top, a sound that continued to repeat itself in waves -- much like a gavel does in a marble covered court room... The silence that followed was much the same, a unanimous verdict in which the world passed judgement in slow motion and Sean was left with the undeniable certainty that life would never again be the same.

"Holy shit." Sean said, his voice cracking. "What the hell, man?" Jason's hand still clutched the gun.

"I can't let it go." He said weakly. "I want to so bad, but I can't..."

Sean concentrated on his friend, feeling the rest of the room tilt just out of focus. Jason sat across from him, his blond curls sticking out from beneath his white pin-striped hat, his shoulders slumped forward, his left hand shaking as he lifted the sleeve of his hooded sweatshirt to wipe his eyes and nose. His face was a reflection of the white Christmas lights that lined the hearth nearby. Behind his glossy stare was an emptiness that was haunting.

"I should be in jail right now." He said softly. "I shouldn't be here." Sean reached out slowly and rested his hand on his friend's.

"Here." He said. "Let it go."

Jason continued to tremor as he stared back through Sean, through the wood paneling and framed black and white photos that covered the walls behind him, through the darkness and the fog outside.

"I shouldn't be here." He said again.

"Let it go." Sean said. Jason stared. "Jason." He said again, this time almost at a whisper. "Let go of the gun." Jason looked at him now, slowly shaking his head.

"I'm sorry." He said. "I can't."

Sean looked down at the forty-five still clutched in Jason's right hand. His friend's knuckles were pale with empty veins tracing the top of his hand. He watched his roommate's hand quake slightly, even with the weight of the gun anchoring it on the oak table top, for several long seconds. When Jason did not offer any further explanation Sean tried a more direct route.

"Alright. Then what happened." He said as he pulled out his last two cigarettes. As he lit them both he noticed that his hands were also shaking. He handed a cigarette to Jason.

"I'm telling you, bro..." Jason took a deep drag from the cigarette. "I should be in the pen right now."

Sean nodded toward the forty-five on the table between them.

"Did you use it?" He asked. Jason swallowed with difficulty.

"I knew she was fucking him." He said. "She swore to me she wasn't. But I knew it."

Both friends took long drags from their cigarettes. Sean let the smoke float up in front of his face. Through the smoke he watched his roommate hold in his breath like he did when he smoked a joint. Finally Jason exhaled.

"I saw them walking together down Alder when I was driving home from Perry's party. I don't know what I thought I was going to do. Anyway, I parked behind the mini-mart next to her place. And I let myself in."

Jason took another drag. Sean jumped up and grabbed an ashtray from the bar.

"I climbed into her closet." He said. "And I brought this." He rapped the side of the gun on the table top in a tired clunk... clunk. Sean wondered for the first time if he really wanted to know the rest of the story.

"How long were you in there?" He asked. Jason swung his right arm up and wiped at his eyes with his sleeve and Sean instinctively flinched as the barrel of the forty-five passed his face. His roommate didn't seem to notice.

"It seemed like a couple of hours." He said. "After a while they came in together. She left the light off. And I could hear them. I mean, shit. I could really hear them. It was so dark in there. I just sat there, on a pile of her shirts, and listened to every movement, every lick, every smack, every groan, every..." His voice cracked slightly. "every... single..." He was shaking his head now. The gun was trembling in his hand. "every fucking sound." He said.

Sean's chest ached as he watched his friend. He took a last drag and then pinched the butt of his Camel cigarette into the black, plastic ashtray.

"That's some real heavy stuff to deal with, Jay." He said. "I'm sorry, man." Jason nodded. He looked up at Sean for the first time since he had started talking. His eyes were still swollen but the hollow stare was gone. Sean became aware again of the buzz from the walk-in cooler. He turned from his friend's gaze and watched a faint pair of white headlights float from left to right in the fog beyond the windows. His left hand followed the deep grains in the oak table top as he closed his eyes and took a purposeful, deep breath.

"Do you want a beer?" He asked. "I think I'm going to have another beer." Jason shook his head. Sean nodded but didn't move.

"Then what do you want?" He asked.

Jason held the forty-five caliber up between them.

"I want to squeeze this trigger." He said. "I want to empty this whole clip." He said. "I want to stand there in her room and reload the clip and then empty it again."

Sean held his breath.

"Don't worry, I already had the chance and I didn't do it. I just want it to stop hurting. I want to be able to let her go." He said.

Sean exhaled very slowly.

"What stopped you?" He asked.

The two friends stared at each other. Sean did not get another beer. Jason did not say anything. There was only the buzz of the walk-in, the soft glow of Christmas lights and the fog outside.

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Sean looked out the window again. The Christmas lights were gone. The hum of the cooler was gone. They had been left behind and along with the pub had faded with the darkness of the early morning. The flat light of dawn had returned the two friends, with help from Sean's green, '68 Beetle, to a pair of mismatched couches at their house on East Rose. What had remained was the fog. Sean stared at it. There were arbitrary outlines that emerged as hints of what lay hidden in the gray beyond. Tracings of a maple tree, the corner of a house, a telephone pole -- their lines faint, blended into cloudiness. He searched the scene and wondered what answers he might find on this kind of morning.

Jason lay stretched out on the other couch. He had a knit blanket draped across him. His eyes were closed. He was still wearing his hat and from time to time he snored softly. The coffee table between them supported various pieces of evidence. There was a fresh pack of Camels and a glass ashtray with three orange butts planted in the ashes. There was a splintered wooden cutting board with crumbs and a single piece of pepperoni pizza laying cold on it. There were two empty Heineken bottles and one that was still half full. There was the loaded forty-five caliber. And next to the gun, there was a black, leather-bound Bible.

Sean reached down to the table and picked up the gun. He tilted it to the side to make sure the safety latch was on. It seemed heavier. Closing one eye, he pointed the gun at the pool table in the next room. One by one he silently picked off the yellow, four ball and then the white, cue ball too. Sean lowered the gun and looked back to his friend. He watched him for a couple minutes. There was a simple expression of clarity on his face as he slept. Sean wished he could sleep like that. He couldn't remember sleep like that. It was possible, he thought, that he had never slept as soundly as his roommate now did.

Sean picked up his beer and took a drink. When his beer was empty and a fourth cigarette butt had been pinched into the ashtray, and still the fog remained heavy as ever, Sean reached out and carefully laid down the forty-five caliber on the coffee table and reached for the black, leather-bound Bible.

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