"Kid, wake up!"
Mom is yelling a him. He just wants to stay buried under his quilt, it's cozy. And a little wet. Shit, did he wet the bed? Or is it...the other kind of wet. Oh god. "Go away, mom, m'sleeping," he mumbles, pushing away the hand that's trying to pull him out of bed.
"Wake up, you damn fool!" mom shouts. Her voice sounds funny - real low. He mumbles something about her possibly having a cold and then she smacks him in the face. His eyes snap open and he's sitting up now, eye to eye with someone decidedly not his mother. No, not unless mom became an angry black man overnight. And no, he's not in bed, he quickly sees. He's outside, sitting in a snowbank. And he's fucking freezing. And this angry black man is still glaring at him. He blinks, at a loss for words and thought.
Angry black man hauls him up and gives him a shake. "What the hell are you doing sleeping outside in the middle of winter, boy?"
Like a freight train from hell, last night comes barreling back at him. "Oh god..." he groans, his head suddenly pounding. He's glad angry black man is holding him up, otherwise he think he might pass out again. "I...I was in a car accident."
"Then where's your car?"
He looks around. The snowy rural road they're standing by is quiet, empty but for a small white jeep idling ten feet away. His car - where the hell did it go? He sees the tree he ran into, it's right there, but where's the car? "I dunno. Maybe they towed it?"
"Then why didn't they tow you away, too?"
"I don't know, man, okay? I don't know what happened!" He pushes the guy's hands off him, frustrated. Angry. Confused. He feels like that freight train from hell ran over him, backed up, and ran over him again about five times.
"Well I'm surprised you ain't dead. Shit." The angry black man grabs his arm again, starts to pull him toward the small jeep down the way. He resists, but the angry black man keeps pulling. "Come on, get in the truck. I'll take you back to Lima, Finn."
That stops his feet firmly. "How do you know my name?"
The angry black man's eyes flash. Really angry black man now. "Boy, you're telling me you don't remember me? Well that's just... That's a fine how do you do!" Really angry black man scoffs, letting go of his arm with a small shove. "You run me down with your mother's car not even two years ago, put me in traction for six months, nearly end my goddamn career, and you don't even remember who I am? Motherfuh- I should leave you here to freeze, you ungrateful brat!"
Oh.
My.
God.
The little white jeep.
A uniform - dude's wearing a uniform. He didn't take it in until just now.
Mailman.
The mailman!
The mailman he saw in his head every time Rachel's leg rubbed over his crotch, every time she licked that spot on his neck with her hot little tongue, every time he touched her boob. "Mr. Henry?" he yelps, shocked.
"I should smack you again," Mr. Henry mutters, shaking his head. "Get in the damn truck."
He can't stop sneaking glances at Mr. Henry as they putter along back toward Lima in the tiny little mail truck, Finn perched on a bucket of mail since there's only one seat. The heater's on full blast and he's holding his hands right up to the vent, trying to warm up. "Thank you for rescuing me, Mr. Henry," he says meekly.
The mailman grunts, shifts the gear lever. "Don't call me Mr. Henry, that was my father. Call me Clarence."
"Well, thanks again, Clarence. And sorry for running you over. Before. You seem much better."
"Ehn. Had some trouble with my prostate awhile back."
"Oh. Did I do that?"
"No. So you were drunk, eh? What were you doing driving around town drunk, running into trees and such?"
He sighs heavily, trying to decide how much to tell Mr. Henry, aka Clarence, aka The Mailman. But it only takes a moment before the whole sordid tale comes spilling out - everything about Rachel, Santana, Puck, hell even Jesse St. James and Quinn. How angry and hurt he is. How he can't forgive Rachel. All of it. He's not sure Clarence is listening after a while, but it's a relief to get it all out. And in the clear light of morning, away from sickly sweet liquor and the self-pity of a lonely Christmas night, he thinks he starts to see clearly for the first time in weeks. "I'm done with her, for good," he concludes finally. "I'm moving on. She's just so...crazy! I can't deal with it. I mean, look what happened last night cuz she's got me so twisted up! It's a wake up call. I don't need her anymore." He nods once, with finality. And then glances again at Clarence to gauge the older man's reaction.
"Damn straight, son," Clarence says.
That catches him off guard a little. He expected something else. But isn't sure what.
"You're a young, healthy seventeen year old man, a wild buck! You don't need to be worrying about relationships and commitment and all that stuff, not right now. You need to be out there on the open range, chasing every pretty little doe that catches your eye, not settling down with one. Not at your age. You should be out sowing your wild oats!"
"Yeah but... Doesn't 'sowing my wild oats' mean, like, getting girls pregnant?" he asks uncertainly.
"It just means having fun. Life's too short, Finn. Forgetting about this Rachel girl is the best thing you can do."
"Yeah," he says quietly.
"No no no. You gotta yell it loud and proud!"
Um. Well. Okay. "Yeah!" he shouts a little louder.
"Yeah what?"
"Yeah! I'm over her! Rachel Barbra Berry, I'm over you!" His voice fills the little van and Clarence is smiling, pumping his fist. Indeed, that was a little liberating, he has to admit. Yeah, he's a wild buck! He's seventeen! He's free, dammit.
"There ya go, son!" Clarence laughs. "Now then. You still live at eleven-zero-seven Bedford Avenue?"
He realizes at the front door of his house that he doesn't have his keys anymore. They must still be in the car, taken away when it got towed to wherever. He looks for the little rock under which they keep a spare key but in the snow covering the porch, he can't find it. It should be right there. But it's not. Dammit.
He turns around and heads back toward Clarence and the mail truck, waiting at the curb. He shrugs. "I'm locked out. My mom's still at Burt's. My step-dad's."
"Burt who?"
"Hummel."
"Nineteen-fifty Gower Street. Let's go."
Climbing back into the truck and perching on the mail bucket, he asks, "Do you know every address in town?"
Clarence gets the truck in gear and they lurch forward, the wheels skidding a little on the snow. "Every address in this sector of the county. Been a mail carrier for twenty-five years. Best job there is. Except when punk kids run you over. Hey, wait a second. Why were you out driving if you ain't got no license?"
"I have a license."
The truck jerks, the brakes squeaking a little, and Clarence stares at him, horrified. "They gave you a license?"
"Um. Yeah?"
"Unbelievable! You nearly killed me! Goddamn DMV. Goddamn government workers, good for nothing buncha useless sons of whores," he mutters.
"Aren't you a government worker?"
"Shut up."
And so the ride to Burt's is silent thereafter. It worries Finn when they arrive and he doesn't see Burt's truck or Kurt's SUV in the driveway. He's gonna be locked out again if they're not home. "You want me to wait again?" Clarence asks. "I really gotta get back to work, get the mail out. I can't really be hauling your ass all over the place all day."
"Yeah, no, I know." He eyes Burt's house, still worried. "No, you don't have to wait. I'll be okay. If they're not here, I can just wait at my friend Artie's house. He lives on the next block."
"Alright then." Clarence sticks out a hand. Finn takes it, shakes it. "Good luck, young man. And don't forget what I said."
"About sowing my wild oats?"
"About life. It's too short."
"Oh. Yeah. Thanks." Weird so-called advice, but whatever. He climbs out of the truck and watches as Clarence putters off in the truck, throwing him a wave out the window. He's a little sad to see him go, oddly. Clarence felt like the only real friend he had at the moment, in a weird way. But now he has to find his mom and tell her what happened. She is gonna be pissed.
He knocks on Burt's front door, ringing the bell a few times for good measure. It's still sorta early, maybe they're asleep. Don't think about mom and Burt in bed together, don't think about mom and Burt in bed together- Aw, shit. Gross. But finally he hears someone opening the locks from inside and the door opens to reveal Kurt standing there in his nightgown.
Wait.
"Can I help you?" Not Kurt, he quickly realizes. It's a lady with short dark hair cut kinda boyish. She eyes him, wary, holding closed the neck of her heavy gown.
"Um." He steps back, looks at the address tacked to the eaves of the house. Nineteen-fifty, that's the right number. "Um. I'm looking for Burt Hummel? Or Kurt? Or Carol Hudson-Hummel?"
The lady closes the door a little bit, probably in case he tries to push his way in. "No one by that name lives here."
"But... This is Nineteen-fifty Gower, right?"
"Yes..." Well huh. He's not sure what to think now. But then the lady's eyes light up a little. "Oh! Of course, I'm so sorry. The Hummels were the previous owners! But they moved out months ago. I never met them, I only met the real estate agent. They did leave rather a lot of stuff behind, I still have some it in the garage waiting to give to Goodwill. Were you looking for that perhaps? It was a lot of furniture mostly and some old clothes..."
But his head is spinning and he stops listening. Moved out months ago? What? "That...doesn't make any sense. They live here, Burt and Kurt. They were here just yesterday!"
"No. They weren't." The lady is getting wary again but he doesn't care if he's freaking her out. He's freaked out! He puts a hand on the door, pushing it open, barging in, pushing right past her. She yelps and stumbles back, shouting at him to get out. But he's shouting, too, shouting for Burt and Kurt and his mom. Where is his mom? "Get out or I'll call the police!" the lady screams.
He's running around the rooms, looking for his family, slowly realizing that none of the furniture in here is right, the walls are painted different, everything is different! What the fuck is going on...
The lady is still screaming, chasing him around, brandishing a ceramic dog statue and waving it at him, threatening. When he comes to a stop in the middle of the living room, utterly at a loss, she finally hits him with it, whacking him in the back. He hardly feels it.
He hardly knows what to feel right now. What to think.
So he runs.
TBC.