Jason

I’ve always known that my life was destined to fail.

Now, before you go all: ‘That’s so morbid!’ hear me out and let me explain. Because the one thing we’re hardly ever allowed to do nowadays is explain.

So, I was born like every other middle-class American kid: in a hospital, surrounded by a doctor and a layer of nurses cooing calm platitudes to my mother, who was undoubtedly screaming, as she screams all the time, even when a ladybug crawls up the edge of her desk chair. I’m sure my father was somewhere in the mix, buying some chips from the downstairs vending machine while contemplating the next and final time he’d disappear from our lives. And my older brother, Miles, four at the time and presumably unsupervised, was probably running amok, shooting rubber bands at janitors and sneaking into the NICU terrorize some poor, unsuspecting newborns.

None of this matters, though. Because what’s always stood out to me most was not the date of my birth, nor the time or circumstances surrounding it. No. What’s slapped me in the face back-to-back for the last twenty-three years has been the memory my mother has of the moment right after I entered the world, fresh from the womb, umbilical cord still yet to be cut. A moment wherein most mothers would say their first reaction had been tears of joy, songs of adoration, sighs of complete and utter contentedness.

But not my mother.

My mother’s reaction to my birth, of all the reactions in the world, was laughter.

Laughter at what, you might ask. Well, let’s just say that apparently, as the doctor was pulling me out of the canal and preparing me for assimilation, he grunted. Like, actually grunted. Because at the ripe old age of one-second old, little Jason Jones was already making a run for it.

According to my mother, I was crying myself red in the face just like any other newborn, but unlike most of them, I was at the same time tugging myself in the other direction, back towards the womb, and, in theory, back before birth.

“He’s a fighter, this one.” The doctor had apparently said, before pinning me down and doing some surgeon magic that made me stop my squirming long enough to be checked over, cleaned up and handed to my mom.

And the rest is history.

So, there you have it, that’s my proof—proof of the fact that even as an infant I knew my life was headed to absolute crap, so much so that I tried to un-birth myself as soon as possible, only to be thwarted by some snarky professional man with a deep voice and, as my mother felt the need to inform me: “movie-star good looks.”

How appropriate.

Alright, so you might be wondering why I seem a bit…peeved. Well, that’s actually another fine story.

This afternoon started off like many an afternoon. I was sitting at my cubicle, one of the many lined up against the pale white floors of the IT division that I worked at for a huge city bank just blocks from home. I’d interned at the place during my senior year in college, managed to convince them that I was at least semi-competent and a noticeable wiz with numbers, and gotten the job right before graduation.

My mother had been super proud. She hadn’t even been sure I’d make it through college, as she herself had never got the chance to, my hopeless brother had flunked out, and my dad…well, let’s just say he was about as committed to the books as he was to parenting so, no dice. When I did make it in, my mother invited the entire town to celebrate, though only a few of them actually ended up showing, this group included my best friend, Dylan, my other best friend, Nadia, and my now ex-girlfriend: Cher, whom I definitely won’t be bringing up anytime soon, so don’t bother asking.

Anyway, my time at college wasn’t exactly what I expected it would be from those early 2000s movies on raves, one-night stands and Adderall binges. My college experience was more…vanilla. I went to all my classes—on time, no less; made friends with the Business and Econ majors because that was the smart thing to do, and spent most of my time building up my resume on odd jobs for fundraisers and marketing campaigns.

Needless to say, it all worked. Or at least it did until earlier today at the office, where I was sitting head-bent over my clustered desk, trying to input the numbers my manager, David, had given me while kicking the train of thought that kept spiraling over to my last text conversation with Cher.

In actuality, it wouldn’t even quantify as a conversation. Not unless you count the words: ‘We should break u,’ with her not even bothering to text out a re-do for the typo ‘u,’ as an active form of dialogue. Granted, when I first saw the text, I sincerely did think she had cracked and was actually going to try to convince me to break myself. In all honesty, she wouldn’t have to try very hard.

But that’s not what she was doing. And I got the gist a second later, when she messaged underneath: ‘It’s not you, it’s me.’

So, that’s what my mind was lingering on during my working hours, and the lack of attentiveness didn’t go unnoticed either. David checked in twice to remind me of the urgency of my task, and I was trying to step on it, to push Cher’s thick, curly black hair out my mind, when the unthinkable happened.

She called.

Like, actually called. Not a beep alerting me of a text requesting her stuff back, not a notification that she’d changed her relationship status on Facebook. An actual, full-on: ‘Request to Chat.’

And of course, I, being the professional and compartmentalizing man that I am, knew that answering personal phone calls while doing an assignment for your already-aggravated boss, is immature at best, suicidal at worst. But I also knew that this was Cher, the girl I’d been in love with since I was seventeen, the girl who’d ripped out my heart, stomped on it, and burned it all in one sentence. And if she was calling me, if she was having doubts about her undeniably cruel actions, who was I to deny her the chance to apologize?

So, I picked up the phone and held it to my ear like a lifeline, already formulating my greeting before hearing the worst sound I could’ve imagined:

A moan.

Not a girl’s moan mind you, a moan of a guy who I already knew was made of ninety-percent muscle and ten-percent brain, a guy who Cher had probably met just a few hours ago during her routine round at the gym and who was now making himself at home and doing God-knows-what to her.

I hung up, so disgusted my hands were shaking, so frazzled I hardly even noticed that David was standing over me, both hands clutching his beige-trousered hips.

“What on earth do you think you’re DOING, Jones?” he’d asked, his raised voice causing others to peek up from their cubicles. “Does this LOOK like the place to be taking PERSONAL CALLS?”

Now, I’m not exactly sure if I responded. All I really remember is getting up and walking away, only pausing when David threatened to demote me.

“Why stop there?” I’d told him, my thoughts still lingering on Cher’s hair, on the fact that some random guy was at that very moment running his fingers through it. “Why not just go all the way?”

And this I remember clearly, because it’s the only reason I’m even talking to you right now. And it’s that I snatched my phone off the table, the phone Cher had called me on, the phone whose recent voices were still snickering callously in my ear, and chucked it—straight at David’s glass office window.

And that’s when he fired me.

So, at this moment, I am currently sitting in my room with my laptop in front of me, dozens of tabs opened up with job applications already completed and filled out. Of course, I’m mentally prepping for the inevitable questions and perceived recriminations on my ‘recent termination.’ But as far as I can tell, the hiring managers can suck it. Whatever BS story I draw out will just have to do, because there’s no way I’m going to be a twenty-three-year-old man still living with his mother and not making a lick of income.

Speaking of my mother…

“You’re back already?” she asks, and I turn from my laptop to look at her.

It strikes me more sometimes than others just how pretty she must have been when she was younger. Before the weight of working two jobs and dealing with a deadbeat husband and delinquent kid whose whereabouts were currently unknown had pulled down her skin, forced her hair up in a thin, tight bun, and made her eyes perpetually sad, even when she was smiling, which she always was, when she greeted me.

But not right now.

I manage a grin.

“I took the rest of the day off.”

“Why?” she walks into my room and puts a warm hand on my forehead, as if I’m one of the geriatric clients she tends to during her home care services. “Are you not feeling well?”

“I’m fine, mom.” I take her hand off and squirm as if it stung me. “Just needed to clear my head a bit. Nothing to fret over, I’ll be going back tomorrow—”

“Why are you looking for jobs?”

Crap.

I look back at her, but I know from her crossed arms and narrowed eyes that she’s already seen. There’s almost no chance that this won’t end up in the truth, but I lie through my teeth anyway.

“Oh, that’s just for Dylan.” I shrug. “You know how I told you he and Nadia have been having a hard time paying rent—”

“The job server says: ‘Thanks for submitting your resume, Jason.’” Mom shakes her head reproachfully. “Since when have you started lying to me?”

“Do you really want to know? Because if so, it started in preschool when I told you that stray cat peed on the rug Grandma knitted when it was actually—”

“Jason.” She’s stepping forward now, and I almost want to step back. “This is no time for your games. Why on earth are you looking for a new job?”

“Because, uh…” I can’t say it to her, so I look down at the floor, which has so many clothes strewn along it you can hardly tell it’s made of wood. “I sorta got…fired…today.”

I can feel her eyes widening. “Oh, Jason—”

“It’s nothing to worry about, okay? I promise. I applied to a dozen places just now, I’m bound to hear back from at least a few. It’ll be like this never happened.”

“But it did happen. And I’m not worried about you getting another job straight away.” She pulls me onto the edge of the bed and leans forward. “I’m just wondering where this came from. I thought you were doing well at that place?”

“I was.”

“Then what went wrong?”

“Well, you know…there was some arguing, then some yelling, then I threw my phone at my boss’ window—”

“You what?”

“Yeah, I should probably put an order in for a new phone, too—”

“Jason, talk to me.” She pulls me back to the bed, her minuscule hands somehow leaving marks on my wrist.

I sigh. “What do you want me to say, mom?”

“I want you to say that you did what you did for a viable reason.”

“Well, I can’t say that. Because it’s not at all true.”

“Why did you throw your phone at your boss’ window?”

“Because of untapped passion, violent ambition, and—”

“Jason.”

“Because of Cher, okay?”

I jump up and run a hand through my hair, which droops before my eyes, brown curls briefly shielding me from the view of my mother getting up and sighing.

“Did she…say something to you recently?”

“Well, it wasn’t so much what she said but from the sounds on her ‘accidental call’ it seems she’s found solace from our breakup in the arms of another guy.”

Mom frowns and I turn swiftly and leave the room, hurrying through the hallway and making a beeline towards the kitchen, where I grab a jar of peanut butter from the counter, the remainder of bread from the pantry, and snatch a knife from the drainer.

She finds me easily.

“Eating your feelings won’t change anything.”

“Shoot, well there goes my drive.” I stuff the sandwich into my mouth, barely distinguishing the fluff of the bread from the goo of the peanut butter. “I’m foing out.”

“W-where?” Mom hurries over as I shove my tennis shoes on.

I swallow down my meal and shrug. “I don’t know. I just need some air.”

“What you need is to talk through these things.” Mom blocks the door and reaches for me. “You’ve always been the type to get too emotional, Jason. You need to learn how to—”

“How to what?” I smack her hand away. “Bottle up all my feelings inside like you do? Act like I can forget that my husband doesn’t love me and my kid’s off on dope somewhere? Is that what you want? Really?”

Her eyes make me realize how terrible the things I’ve said are. But at this moment, I can’t bring myself to care. I have to leave, and I gently push by her.

She moves away without resistance, like a feather.

“I’ll be gone for a while,” I say, cringing at the front door’s creak as I show her my back. “Don’t wait up.”

“…Be careful.”

I don’t want to visualize her face in the door frame, but it happens naturally, and I can see those big, round eyes staring soulless daggers at me, her mouth closed shut as if it would stay that way forever, and her entire face an ashen gray.

***

I kick pebble after pebble as I trudge down the sidewalks of our small town, the edges of which are lined with local diners, pawn shops and grocery markets. The noonday sun beats tauntingly down on me; in it’s own way, it seems to be giving me a disappointed look, too.

Go away, I want to yell at it. I’ve seen enough of those to last a lifetime.

I’m rounding an intersection, still thinking of my mother’s face, when I hear a loud honk.

“Jason!”

I look up.

Dylan is stepping out of his silver Kia Rio and striding forward, his round face glowing in a stupendous grin. On any other day I would’ve been happy to see him, but right now I couldn’t be less in the mood.

“Hey,” I say, waving noncommittally. “How’s it going?”

“Great!” Dylan hugs me and immediately stiffens. He pulls away and gives me a hard look. “Alright, something’s up. You never let me hug you.”

“Today must be your lucky day.”

“What’s wrong?”

I turn away; the sun is still annoyingly hot and it’s stinging my eyes. At least that’s what I tell myself to excuse the tears that are currently welling up. God, I’m a grown man crying on a sidewalk. If my father or Miles were here, they’d be having a field day.

Dylan doesn’t laugh though. He just furrows his eyebrows and grips my shoulder.

“Come on.”

He walks me over to his car, which is air-conditioned and smells like the pine tag hanging off the mirror. It’s cleaner than I thought it would be, which must be the work of Nadia. I lived with Dylan through all four years of college, and I can thoroughly attest to the fact that he’s even messier than I am.

“This place is clean.” I say as he slides into the drivers’ seat, trying to be casual despite the fact that I’m currently pushing out more tears than I can wipe away.

Dylan doesn’t respond, and his silence makes me feel worse. I take in a huge sniff and shake my head, wishing I was anywhere else, wishing Dylan hadn’t seen me, when he speaks up.

“You know, I was on my way to your place.”

“Why?” I ask, staring at him through most definitely red eyes.

“I wanted to check up on you.” He shrugs as if that should be obvious. “I also, uh…kinda ran into Cher today.”

My heart tightens like someone’s just grabbed it, and I take a deep breath to make sure my voice doesn’t crack.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Dylan shakes his head. “You know how I deliver packages to the hospital sometimes, right? Well, I saw her there. She was visiting her mom, and—”

I put a hand up. The last thing I need is to feel sympathy for Cher and her ailing mother.

“That’s okay, Dyl. She and I aren’t dating anymore, I don’t need to know—”

“I just think you should hear—”

“You know what I heard earlier today?” I say in a voice that sounds slightly manic even to me. “I heard her going down on someone. That’s right, she butt-dialed me at work—hell, maybe she even did it on purpose, I don’t know. But I heard him, I heard her and…” I don’t want to go on; the tears had paused briefly but were now threatening to spill out. “I don’t wanna hear any more about her, okay?”

Dylan simply stares at me, then nods.

“Alright.”

He starts up the engine and all of a sudden we’re driving through town. I might have asked more about this if I wasn’t already in such a disaster of a mood.

Feeling sick, I tilt my pounding head against the dashboard.

“I called you, by the way.” Dylan’s voice rings out beyond me. “To say I’d be coming over. Couldn’t reach you though.”

“Yeah…I kinda don’t have a phone anymore. It broke after I threw it at my boss’ window.”

The car swerves but Dylan gets a quick grip of it.

“You what?”

I’m able to explain the story using minimal detail; he doesn’t require nearly as much as my mother. Afterwards he just pats me on my shoulder, says “That’s rough, man,” and continues driving us to who knows where.

My head’s starting to clear up a bit, and my tears are drying when Dylan stops the car in front of a vaguely-familiar looking house.

I sit upright right away.

“What the HELL are we doing here?”

“We don’t need to go in.” Dylan’s saying in a voice that I know is meant to soothe me because I’m currently having a full-on panic attack. “I just wanted to show you—”

“Show me what?” I look out at the large house with its full front yard and its steel fence. “That my father’s doing a-okay not checking up on us when we live THIRTY minutes from him? What the hell’s wrong with you, man—”

“Listen, Jason.” Dylan grabs my shoulder and forces me to face him. “You know I wouldn’t be doing this without a reason. Just look at the window.”

I glare and turn away, obeying just to find another reason to stay angry. It’s a small house, and the living room window is wide open with its curtains pulled back, showing someone sickly-looking lounging in a large armchair. It takes me a second to realize who it is, and my brain instantly wants to contradict itself, but the dampened curls give all the proof I need.

“Miles.” I mutter. “What’s he doing there?”

I’ve never once thought of my father as a man who’d just abandoned me. He’d abandoned all of us—me, my mom, and Miles. So, to see my brother sleeping in that house after all these years causes my head to spin.

“Your dad found him scrounging around outside some shelter—I think he’d been trying to locate him for a while. He’s gotten Miles to move in, plans on putting him through some rehabilitation programs; he told me so when he saw me.” Dylan looks at me. “He wanted me to tell you.”

“Why?”

“…I think he’s tryna make amends.”

“Is that so? Well, he’s about eighteen years too late.” I’m more irritated than I’ve ever been, and I take it out on Dylan. “What’s this supposed to be, huh? Some kinda walk through the past?”

“It’s supposed to be me teaching you about your life.” He snaps. “Look, Jace, we’ve been friends since we were kids and I’ve seen you harbor your resentment towards them for more than half that time. I just thought you’d be happy to know—”

“Be happy that what?” I raise my voice. “Hey everybody, my addict brother finally got some sense and is moving in with our absentee father, how swell! What a lovely end to a lovely FUCKING story!”

“Your father wants to see you.”

“Well, I don’t want to see him.” I slouch against the chair that’s no longer comfortable in this unbearably stuffy car. “I can’t believe you’re making me think about this crap after everything I just told you—”

“Oh, grow up, Jason!” Dylan yells. “Look at me. You didn’t even let me finish what I was telling you about Cher, what she said—”

“I told you, I don’t—”

“That guy she was blowing off? He wasn’t a date, alright?” He sighs. “He wasn’t a date.”

“What are you talking about?”

Dylan looks down.

“Cher’s been needing money. To help pay off her mom’s medical bills. Her boss was always making eyes at her. She didn’t want you to know—”

“That’s a lie.” I sit upright. “A sick, sick lie. You really think I’m gonna believe—”

“I overheard her crying about it on the phone till she noticed me.” Dylan insists. “We had a long talk. I’m tellin’ you, it’s the truth. That’s why she broke up with you, man…she didn’t want to cheat.”

Something inside me breaks.

“…W-Why didn’t she just tell me? We could’ve worked something out, I’ve got some money saved up.”

“She didn’t want to bother you.” Dylan shrugs. “You’re always talking about how much life sucks, Jace. How unfair it all is. She didn’t want to become another burden, asking you to help pay her bills.”

I can’t respond so I swallow and lean against my seat, my mind reeling. Reeling with images of Cher. Cher and her warm smile and gentle eyes. Her constant emphasis on seeing the good in others and her love of all things sweet. That girl…being forced to succumb to such lengths to take care of her mother. All because she didn’t think it safe to tell me.

I hardly notice that Dylan’s driving again.

My father’s house is getting smaller and smaller, my image of Miles growing dimmer. The two of them together. Miles wanting to start over. Cher. My brain can barely process it.

When Dylan stops the car in front my house, I’m not surprised that he gives me a long look.

“Are you OK?” He asks.

“I don’t know what I am.”

“You’re my best friend, and you’re gonna be just fine.” He claps my shoulder. “Give Cher a call sometime, alright? After you get a new phone and you’re in the right mood. I think she’d like that.”

I don’t respond and simply get out of the car and close it.

As I walk through the door I’m being pelted with images of Cher, my father and my brother, all spinning around me in imperfect circles. All the people I thought had disappeared from my life forever. Still there somehow.

Still wanting me.

When I enter the house I head straight towards the kitchen, where I find my mother standing over the counter, an album sprawled out before her. When I come closer, I see that it’s the one filled with baby pictures of me and Miles with Dad, back when we were all together, back when life was good.

She looks up and freezes.

“Jason?” she hurries over, and I immediately embrace her, breathing in that honey-sweet smell of my childhood, the smell of a life I thought I’d lost.

“Mom,” I say, giving her a tight squeeze. “I need to tell you something.”