CHAPTER TEN

Rick was right. Things weren’t the same.

It was easier thinking we had a thousand tomorrows to fix things. If something went wrong, if we fucked up our credit by buying a $500 electronic keyboard so we could write a love song for the new girl in anthropology 101, we had a thousand tomorrows to fix it. If we lost our drivers license because of forty unpaid parking tickets, it was alright because we knew we had a thousand tomorrows to pay it. If we drank ourselves to the point of blacking out, hearing a week later that we punched each others teeth out, called our moms whores and our fathers assholes, it was fine because we had a thousand tomorrows to apoligize for it. If we lost our jobs, dropped out of college, cheated on girlfriends, just played videos games all day and night long, it was perfectly okay because we knew we had a thousand tomorrows to make up for it. If we had one more cigarette left, we’d smoke it, because we knew, tomorrow we could get some more.

But things were different now. At least for some of us.

“Man,” starts, Xavier, “I gotta get out of here.”

I look at him for a second, remembering what his face looked like two years ago. Before he went to live in San Francisco with his lawyer girlfriend. Sharp, big white eyes, well-trimmed mustache and goatee, wide smile. Tall and thin yet strong at the same time. Never looked like he would fall. Walked like the wind, fast and all over the place. Talked 300 words per second, made perfect sense, could convince anyone of anything, which he did a lot because he never had a dime to his name. But it was alright for him because he was the main philosopher general who carried the flag of a thousand tomorrows everywhere he went and with everything he did. And everyone who followed him in his adventures had as much conviction as he did.

All we did was the same old things. Video games. Drinking and cards. Watching TV all day. Talking about movies. Smoking weed. Drinking. Video games. Watching movies. Year after year after year after year. It was like that for a long time. Almost a decade.That’s when, Jack’s mom went into the hospital. Heart attack. The bad kind. Her brain got fried and so half of her body couldn’t function anymore. She was always weak, slept most of the days, tried to do the exercises the doctors gave her, like freakin’ walking, arm stretches, basic motor skills, she had to relearn all over again.

Here was the woman who took care of him, as much as she could, all by herself, who he never really saw much of, but knew was always there for him, this woman, this strong single immigrant mother became immobilized.

That’s all, Jack really needed to straigten things up. He got a boring job at a tech company doing data entry. Did that for a year. Got promoted to sales. Did that for a couple of years. Fought for a a trainer position and got it. Did that for a couple of years. Now, Jack is a national trainer flying all over the country teaching employees of that tech company across the United States how to do data entry, sell, and manage.

He makes decent money. He’s no millionare but compared to the rest of us, he’s practically our bank roll. Not really happy, in terms of what real happiness is, but he gets satisfaction knowing his mom is okay and that he can provide for her. He bought her a house and they both live there to this day.

“I gotta get outta here.” repeats, Xavier.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“I can’t be doing this anymore.” He says, almost sober. “This is getting pretty old.”

“You mean you and, Bob?” I ask.

“Naw. not really that.” He says. “More of this complacency. This acceptance of apathy. This, shit, man, this not going anywhere. This not doing anything.”

“What do you mean?” I say. “You do things.”

“Writing? Acting? performing?” He scoffs. “Temporary relief. It’s group therapy. Doesn’t change shit.” He pulls out another cigarette.

“Wanna smoke?”

I smile. “I quit.”

“I know. We want you back though.” He smiles. takes out his lighter. “I mean it’s cool and all, and it’s good because it makes people think. OR at least when you do good Art, ya know? not lower case art. that shit is for shit. But Art with a capital A.”

He lights up his cigarettes, takes a deep, deep, drag, and releases a long tendril of smoke.

“But thinking about things and talking about it can only go so far.” He continues. “I mean, i don’t know how many lawn chairs or classrooms or theatres I’ve talked about changing the world, leaving my mark, improving peoples lives. And i talk a good talk. I mean, it makes real sense, ya know?”

He takes in another deep, deep, drag fo the cigarette and lets go of another stream of cigarette smoke.

“I think it’s time to do something.” he says.

I look at him. He doesn’t look like he used to. There are gray bags under his eyes, which aren’t white anymore. They’re kind of white, but not really white. He wears a full beard now, with several white hairs here and there. He isn’t thin. He got meatier. He slouches in his chair, not part of the wind anymore, just really rather human now.

“Like what?” I ask.

He smiles. “Wanna make a million dollars?”

“…huh…?”

He smiles even bigger. It’s almost contagious. Like he’s got some hair-brained, elaborate, exciting, plan where we come out with gold nuggets and mansions and helicopters with our intials engraved on each blade. Honestly, i wouldn’t put it past him.

“I got a plan.” He says.

.And then, I smile.

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