A Five-Minute Life

“I know nothing’s okay right now,” he said. “But at least you didn’t get yourself arrested.” He took a drag from his smoke.

I sank onto a nearby bench. He sat with me.

“I know this is killing you,” he said, “but you have to go home now. Get some rest.”

“I can’t go home.” My numbness started to crack. “I can’t leave her, Alonzo.”

“You have to, Jim. For now. We’ll see what happens later.”

“Thea doesn’t have a later.”

Our eyes met, and he sighed. “I know.” He put his arm around me, pulling me into his embrace. I resisted at first then sagged against him.

“I got you, son,” he said. “I got you.”

I closed my eyes and let him carry what I couldn’t, at least for a few minutes. After a time, I straightened, wiped my eyes on my shoulder. “My truck is in New York.”

“I’ll give you a lift.”

He drove me to my house in Boones Mill and stayed. We drank a couple of beers and talked the hours away until the exhaustion started to drag at me.

“I’m going back to the hospital,” he said, getting to his feet. “Keep your phone handy. If anything changes, I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks.”

We shook hands and then he patted my cheek. “You’re a good man, Jim. One of the best.”

His words bounced off my failure. I’d broken my promise to Thea. Nothing was good in that.

Despite the fatigue, I lay awake, my nerves lit up. I kept my phone close, waiting, but no messages came. I got up and drank another beer.

Still nothing.

Go down there. Break in. Fight for her.

And get arrested for sure.

I needed to be close to Thea or I’d go fucking crazy. I started to open my guitar case but froze with my thumbs on the latches. I had no desire to play—it would hurt like a motherfucker to be accompanied by the memory of Thea watching as I sang at the open mic in New York, her eyes brilliant and full of love for me.

I picked it up anyway, because I had memories still—even if they stabbed me in the heart. Soon, Thea wouldn’t have any. I owed it to her to feel them. To remember.

Remember us… when I can’t.

I opened the case.

A piece of folded paper with my name lay on top of the guitar. I unfolded it with shaking hands. The ArtHouse was embossed across the top.

Dear Jimmy,

By the time you read this, I’ll be gone.

Ha! I’m sorry, that’s bad, right? But I’m scared shitless and you know I make bad jokes when I’m scared shitless. I’m scared because I will be gone. Not dead, but it feels that way. Nothingness. No thoughts.

Anyway, I didn’t write this letter to talk about me. This is about you. I want you to know some things while I’m away. I want to put them on paper, in black and white, so they don’t go anywhere. Like how I wrote my word chains—so my thoughts could stay somewhere when my memory wouldn’t let me keep them for myself.

I see you, Jimmy. The real you. The loving, beautiful, honorable, sexy AF man you are. I know you think you haven’t done much with your life but that’s not true. You help people every day. You help the world even though the world hasn’t been kind to you. You could’ve let your childhood make you bitter. You could’ve ruined yourself with drugs or alcohol, or become a violent, raging asshole. Because why not? No one gave you a reason not to. But you didn’t. Your desire to help burns so strongly, it can’t be put out. It’s a spark in you that won’t ever die. It’s the kindness I saw in your eyes every time we met.

You helped people at Blue Ridge. And you helped me. You saved me. You brought me back to life.