The Long, Broken Road

Unfortunately, I couldn't go back to my old life of being a computer programmer. Apparently, a felon could never be trusted to program code. We could turn into a hacker and compromise the integrity of whatever computer system we were working on. Still, through Project Return and PRO Employment, I landed a job at a manufacturing plant as a CNC machinist. So yes, I did take advantage of hand-outs; however, I used it long enough to get back on my feet. I worked hard at the plant. I never missed a day. Money I earned went to bills and child support. Sadly, I was surrounded by people who would drink their paycheck away. You could see the cycle start all over. Well, fuck them.

The one vice that I did have was this beat up old guitar that I bought from a pawn shop. As I said before, in prison, I had to take anger management classes. In addition, I took music lessons. It was through music that I could find a way to soothe my spirit. I could release whatever energies I had through the strings of a guitar. If you have seen one of the Avengers movies, even the Hulk listened to opera to calm his nerves.

I found that working weekends meant that I would earn a shift differential in pay, so my "week-ends" came on Monday and Tuesday. I would spend my weekends playing my guitar, or wandering Lower Broad to listen to bands trying to make it in this crazy town. However, going to these bars on Lower Broad during the week meant that I wasn't going to be a sardine or get beer spilled on me by some drunken bitches celebrating a bachelorette party. Damn whores simply getting practice on how to sleep around on their soon-to-be husbands. I had no delusions of grandeur, though. I played as a release. I plucked the strings of the guitar like someone was plucking at my heart strings. I didn't bend those strings until the Hank came out.

–––-

It had been ten years since "that one day". The obsession to hate Melanie has long since been muted. And well, the asshole will forever be an asshole. Batting practice on the asshole was a temporary relief, but it didn't change the fact that he was an asshole and that in the end, he's still the one with my ex-wife. Even the heart ache of not seeing my girls has dulled to a distant murmur. I'm sure that I'm a distant, forgotten memory since they have their "new Dad". Get your new Dad! Now, with flavor crystals! So this Vader nightmare troubled me. Why? Why was my subconscious mind tormenting me in my dreams?

I looked at the guitar, resting against the patio door. I'm not certain that those strings could ease my troubled mind tonight. A part of me allowed the corner of my lips to curl into a partial smirk. See, Brette? You don't know me as well as you thought you did. That was until I noticed that inside my apartment, a desk lamp illuminated a ratty old photo album, sitting on the kitchen table.

While I may not have had the ability to go see my daughters play softball or perform at dance recitals, or participate in pageants, I did keep tabs on them through the newspaper. Any newspaper clippings about their successes in school, on the diamond, or at any number of events was collected and kept in this photo album. I am not ashamed to admit that I stalked them on Facebook. At some point, I really need to talk to them about setting their privacy settings on Facebook so old men can't go stalking them. As much as it pained me to witness their photographs of family outings, knowing that I was not a part of their life, I still enjoyed seeing them.

Flipping through the pages of the album, the obvious came to light. Abby turned 18 today. In the next week or so, she will graduate from high school. My obligation to pay child support for Abby comes to an end. You would think this revelation would make me feel happy, knowing that more of my hard earned money will be back in my pocket. Unfortunately, that child support check was my last remaining tie to my daughter. I'm no longer responsible for anything in her life. Yes, I still have Allie, but Abby was my "baby girl". In three years, I will be nobody to no one.

Time to pluck those strings.

I hated this song when I heard it on the radio. The fast paced dance beat seemed to undercut the bittersweet lyrics. However, then I heard a slower rendition of "Waves" by Mr. Probz. It captured my mood perfectly. With each strumming of the chords, the strings to my heart played the emotional release that I needed. Not a tear fell down my cheek, while my guitar gently wept. Sitting on the balcony, the concrete buildings of the Nashville skyline were members of my audience. The cold blacktop and the cars beneath me was lucky enough to get front row seats.

"My face above the water

My feet can't touch the ground

Touch the ground, and it feels like

I can see the sands on the horizon

Every time you are not around

I'm slowly drifting..."

The young voice sung from the sliding glass door. Brette had that haunting melody down perfect: the bittersweet sorrow of watching someone drift away and being helpless to do anything about it.

I turned around to see that Brette had yet to listen to my demands of going back to bed. In doing so, I missed where I would sing the background vocals; but, I did not miss a single chord as my fingers knew what was expected of them. The look on my face certainly expressed my displeasure at having her disobey me; however, I wasn't her father. I had no right to demand anything from her. And deep down, I loved listening to her sing. The fact that she would sing to "my plucking of strings" teased me with hope, that maybe I'm a somebody to someone rather than a nobody to everyone.

I looked back to the skyline as my fingers never faltered with striking the right notes. Before she could start singing the chorus, I said, "Abby turns 18 today."

"Yea, I saw her birthday card marked 'Return to Sender' on the table."

A few of the chords from my guitar drifted by. The silence simply hung in the air.

"I put it with all of the other cards you've tried sending to Abby and Allie."

More chords. More silence.

"Maybe one day they will see that you cared, bless their hearts."

Not a word from me, but the strumming of my guitar. After a few chords, Brette finally took the hint and went back inside. What she said was a hope that I was clinging onto; however, I put little faith in that day ever coming around. Vocalizing that hope would only let me down.

Eventually, sleep overcame my fear of returning to that dream.

–––-

As I said, I don't play to get noticed. I certainly don't play to make a living. I know better than to try to live off the tips from those pickle jars. If I was young and had no responsibilities, then maybe I'd be like my blonde side-kick. Her story is much like all the starving artists here in the Music City. She grew up in a little town, blinded by the lights of the big city. She participated in theater, getting standing ovations for her part in whatever play or vaudeville act that they put on. Her parents were supportive until she got bit by the bug. She gave up on going to college, so that she could make it as a country singer. She stepped off the bus, shook off the 'where you came from' dust, and never looked back. Not that she could, her parents didn't condone this foolish dream. I suspect that they'd welcome back the prodigal daughter, if she ever decided to give up the bright lights.

We all live with our choices we make in life. I'm living proof. While my wife decided to spread her legs for some asshole, I'm the one who has to look in the mirror and accept how my 'manly' reaction of beating the shit out of the asshole fucked up what remained of my life. My wife was gone, but if I would have thought about the girls, then perhaps they'd still be in my life. No, I let ego, pride, and the need to show that I'm the 'better man' get in the way. I wasn't a Navy Seal, or a Black-Ops Marine, or some kind of hidden closet Kung Fu warrior. All that training on the X-box or Playstation, for some reason, did not translate well into real life. I don't care if Bryce Petty said that playing Madden made him a better quarterback, the fool is still not a starter in the NFL and there's a reason for that.

Brette had to live with making poor choices in men. First, she fell in love with her band's guitarist. The saying goes: "No honey where you make money." Any kind of emotional break-up would cause the band to split. The young pup should have listened to Fleetwood Mac's "Rumours", and read the romantic turmoil this band experienced. The advice that old folks give is not completely without merit. Though, I suppose how are we ever going to be old and wise if we aren't young and crazy?

The second poor choice she made was trusting one of the more sleazy music producers in the business. Yes, the guy had access to studio time. Yes, the guy had connections with bars and could promote like no one's business. Unfortunately, his clients consisted mostly of young women looking to become the next Carrie Underwood. If the next starlet wanted the top bills and the best places, she had to pay homage to the producer god. Whether it was getting down on her knees or crying out her new found religion, it didn't matter to the scum bum.

Based on how I found her? I'm going to guess she asked how the day could get worse, and life gave her an answer. Her band's gig at Tootsie's Orchid Lounge was double-booked. Conveniently, the double-booking occurred after she refused to go down on the ass hat. To hear it from his lips, it was an honest mistake. To compound the matter, a little birdie told her boyfriend that she had been sleeping with the producer. Despite all her efforts to defend her honor, the lie grew a life of its own. Before she knew it, she was without a producer and was without a band. The manager at Tootsie's felt compelled to give the girl a break and allowed her to sing two songs before the next band did their set. She needed a guitarist.

Why did I help her? She made her bed, so she needed to lie in it. But there was something in that vulnerable girl that touched a heart string. If the Grinch's heart can grow three sizes on a certain day, then perhaps the same could said for me. Or, avoiding fairy tales, I was drowning my sorrows in missing my daughters on that particular day, and she reminded me of Abby. Or what I envisioned Abby to be if she were twenty years old. I was not going to let my little girl down again. Brette wasn't my daughter, though. This was her one chance, and I felt like plucking the strings.

There was no Hollywood magic that day. Cinderella didn't get her glass slipper. Brette didn't find a producer. She didn't connect with the owners. We had never rehearsed together. We have never played together, so our chemistry was off. Not to mention, she was an emotional wreck. The odds were stacked against her. There was no rebounding from that. Her two songs came and went. I'm not even sure if she made any money in the pickle jar. Still, I did my part. Maybe Karma would circle back around and give me a break with Abby if the chance ever presented itself.

We all live with our choices. The blonde wanna-be thanked me profusely for coming to her aid. However, she wasn't done looking for hand-outs. With her boyfriend kicking her out the door, and that she couldn't go back home, she needed a place to stay. The hormones in me wanted to have this sweet young thing in my bed. There was no love associated with the thought. Use her for the night and then kick her to the curb like I do all the drunken girls I stumble across on my days off. However, I wasn't going to be that guy. She already got fucked over by two pricks. I wasn't going to make her air tight.

I gave her one night to rebound and get back on her feet. I should have known better. Whenever a girl said she needed five minutes to get ready, I knew it really meant a half hour, at least. I should have known better than to agree to one night. A year later, she's still my roommate. Still, she has proven to be useful. Apparently, she gets a kick out of "taking out the trash". That's her little way of sending those drunken girls on their walk of shame. She's one hell of a wingman. Why she chooses to stay with an old geezer like me is anyone's guess.

–––-

Mornings come way too early. I would greatly appreciate it if the morning could come back around noon, or maybe even later. Mornings that involve a pounding on my door are mornings that I like even less. Does this person have no sense of decency? Not everyone gets up at the crack of crazy. Farmer Brown can shove his knocking up his ass, and go back to milking his fucking cows. Leave me the fuck alone.

If there is one thing that I have learned is that you should never ask "How can this day get any worse?" Life will always find a way to answer that question. No. I no longer ask if it can get worse, it will. Accept that it will get worse, and your expectations are set low. You will not be disappointed if things turn out better than what you anticipated. However, in my case, I have been pretty good at anticipating life using me as a port-a-potty.

Case in point: peering through the peep hole to see who decided to wake me at this God forsaken hour was a mistake. There on the other side of the door was none other than the ex-wife. She looked good, too. In the ten years that we have been a part, she aged gracefully and beautifully like a fine wine. Then again, before it was banned, absinthe was also aged to perfection. She wore the cutest of sundresses, showing off her legs. I can still recall how smooth her calves were when she wrapped her legs around mine while we made love.

Her plump breasts were always a selling point. Even before Abby and Allie, she was blessed by the male hormone gods and was granted breasts every boy wanted to touch, squeeze, feel, and suckle. She would arch her back every time I thrusted my cock into her, so that she could rub her nipples against my chest. After ten years, there was not an ounce of sag to them. Perhaps modern science had a hand in that feat, but no one was going to complain.

In college, one of my buddies used to define a night of sex based on the girl's looks. If the girl was high maintenance, like a sorority prom queen, she would simply lie there and let her looks do all the work. He hypothesized that she was probably thinking about what color to paint the ceiling. If the girl was overweight and fat, she would have no self-worth and degrade herself just to experience an orgasm. However, the best girls were the average looking girls because they were in it for the same reason he was, to get laid. During college, Melanie was an average looking girl. But now, she was certainly high maintenance.

Another change that was hard to miss, Melanie dyed her hair blonde. I used to love the way she wore her brown hair down in soft curls. She always proclaimed that the blondes in high school and in college were plastic and lacked personality. Now, she bore the fake persona. It did not look good on her. She should go back to her natural hair color.

"Doug," the mental image of my wife spoke that accursed name. All of those feelings of love and yearning came crashing down harshly. The succubus, that she turned out to be, revealed her talons and her horns with malice and little consideration for the destruction left in her wake. And this bitch is pounding on my door at a time when roosters would be thinking to themselves it was too damn early.

I opened the door stoically. I was not going to give the bitch the pleasure of knowing she ruined my sleep. I can only fathom what her agenda is. There's not much more she can take from me.

"Oh, uh... hi," she spoke nervously.

Hi? The bitch hasn't spoken to me in ten years, and these are the words she chooses to use after such a "short" hiatus? I could tell my silence was getting to her. She shifted her weight from one foot to another. When she's uncomfortable, she always fidgeted with her nails. This was no exception.

"I'm looking for Steve Brooks. I was told that he lived at this address. Is he here?"

I thought that all the hatred I had for her had been purged from my system. However, having her stand here in front of me was like ripping open old wounds. Whoever said that time heals all wounds has never had an ex-wife.

"Please, I need to talk to him. It's important."

It's always the same with her. Me, myself, and I. While it's fun to put her on edge with the silent treatment, I figured it was time to let that game come to an end.

"The restraining order you had issued makes that a little difficult. Go through your lawyer if you have anything you need to say," Each word, each syllable carried just the right amount of venom and vitriol to express the finality to that statement.

Or so I thought. Before I could shut the door, Melanie put her hand upon the door and looked at me with wide eyed amazement. For some reason, I just couldn't slam the door on her face. Anybody else, I would not have hesitated crushing fingers that would have gotten caught in the door's threshold. Why didn't I do it now? I must be a glutton for punishment.

"Steve? Is that you? You look..."

She struggled for the words as she scrutinized my appearance. I no longer had that paunch around my belly. As noted before, I have opted to go with the bald look rather than try to hold on to whatever hair I had remaining. Jean-Luc Picard may have pulled that look off well. I certainly didn't. The tattoo sleeves certainly were a new addition for her. For a moment, I thought I saw her pupils dilate.

"Go home."

This time, there was no hesitation. The door was slammed right in front of her face. I slammed the door so hard that the entire apartment shook. I'm sure I'll get complaints from the neighbors, but fuck them. If they knew the situation, they'd chastise me for not doing it sooner. I wished I could say that I felt better slamming the door on her. I felt nothing. I felt like a stone.

The disturbance brought Brette out of her room. She was wearing just a Tennessee Titans' jersey, number 89 – Frank Wychek. That was my jersey. I'm going to have to make a mental note to have a discussion with her about that. Though, I'm not going to lie either. She looked sexy as hell. I wonder what she had on underneath that.

"Stony, is everything o-"

Melanie interrupted her, pleading through the door, "Steve, it's about Abby!"

The look of disgust on my face answered Brette's unfinished question. Now the reason for the bitch to show up has become clear.

In a rage, I threw open the door. "Now that Abby's 18, you come all the way down here to beg for more money?!" The look in her eye reminded me of the night that I laid into the asshole with the baseball bat. Let her be scared. She had some audacity trying to pull this shit. There was a lot more that I wanted to say. There was a lot more I wanted to do; however, I knew I had to get away. Remember all that anger management bullshit? Well, now was the time. I turned and grabbed my guitar and headed for the balcony.

In my haste, I forgot to close the door on Melanie. Apparently, she mistook that as an invitation to come into the apartment.

"That's not why..." She started to refute my statement. However, Melanie never experienced me walking away mid-argument. My behavior must have seemed odd to her.

I started plucking the strings on my guitar, trying to find any chord that sounded right. It was a cacophony of notes. Nothing felt right. My fingers couldn't play. I was awash with emotion. A cleansing breath, clenched jaw, and closed eyes helped me try to locate a happy place. It sure as hell was not here.

Inside, I could hear Brette and Melanie talking.