He didn't think it would be easy to fix, but John didn't think it would so damn hard. He was struggling to figure out what he wanted to do, how to tell the club and spin it so that would land a vote his way. JT supposes that good things aren't easy, and if they were it would have been more of a battle for the club to get into its current state. It had been all too simple for things to fall in place and for a vote to swing that they were involved in running guns. Although it took a majority vote for the agreement of action, the blame didn't lie with the club. John wasn't blameless in it, and he distinctly remembered voting for them to get involved.
That seemed like a good first step toward fixing things; taking responsibility. JT thought that he knew himself fairly well, and he knew that he was a pessimistic kind of guy. Taking responsibility, he vowed to himself, wouldn't just be about facing up to the negatives, but accepting the positives too. Otherwise, he would be glad to meet that motorcycle accident he was sure was coming in a few years.
It was odd to be thinking of the consequences of his actions again. He'd always been strategic, something that had probably saved all their asses a few times, but lately, he couldn't bring himself to think of the future. "Can't avoid the future forever," he murmured, scolding himself. It hurt to even think about it, but he had to consider Tommy. As he thought about Tommy, he wondered what the hell he was even doing in Ireland. If it had been any other member of the Sons, he would've been pushing them to go spend time with his family. It wasn't right for him to be running half a world away. He was supposed to be a leader, what kind of example was he setting to everyone? A piss poor one, that was for sure.
He had volunteered to go to Ireland because he felt it was important that the President of the founding charter, of the whole club, be present to show people what they were signing up for. JT thought it was fair, in a way that being in the army wasn't. In the army, you didn't know who was who until you got to Vietnam. You didn't know who you were working under and risking your life for. It could have been anyone, but John was lucky and got along with his commander. He knew Piney had been moved from a different platoon because he couldn't fight under that officer. Had called him a 'rat bastard that doesn't give a shit who's out fighting as long as it ain't him'. John didn't want to be that, so he had thrown himself into the club at the worst possible time.
There was never a clear division between home life and club life, not like a normal nine to five job was. The club followed him home in the form of the guns he always kept nearby and the plans he was always considering and reconsidering, and his family followed him to the clubhouse. When Jax was a toddler, there had even been a playpen set up in the corner of the clubhouse. John and Piney had spent many an afternoon 'babysitting' their sons who had harmlessly sat in their little section of the clubhouse. They were fond memories for JT; it was just after establishing the club as being outcasts and way before they were outlaws. The clubhouse was dark, but with the kids in it, it seemed a little lighter. More innocent.
What kind of a future was he setting up for his kids? Jax was practically already salivating at the thought of prospecting. When the club had started out, JT had looked forward to that. Standing with his sons against the world. He'd laughed that he'd be standing with his sons in the Sons against the world. Now he felt like he had to pick his sons or the Sons. There were no easy choices in his future.
It would be too easy to leave the Sons of Anarchy and start over in theory. In reality, all that would ever amount to was a fanciful daydream. Even if he could walk away from SAMCRO, he had a criminal record. The only thing he'd be able to put on his CV was the army and the corner store he'd worked at when he was sixteen. Maybe he'd be able to put that he had bartending experience. Who the fuck would hire him? He wouldn't be able to survive, or support his family. Walking away from SAMCRO wasn't an option. He'd have to stay and fix it.
Hopefully, in fixing the club, some of his own life would be fixed; his mess and conscience cleaned. Tabula rasa - a clean slate.
He needed a clean slate, he realised. Not to say that John wanted to wipe himself clean of everything he was. He couldn't do that to himself, and certainly not to the family that he had made. The club needed a clean slate. An evaluation of what it was versus what it started as. He could start that straight away, in a small way. He was in Belfast to watch over the establishment of the new SAMBEL charter. There was a President, but they all knew they answered to John Teller's authority, as he was the President of the whole club.
It was a small charter, which was to be expected, considering that it hadn't even been running for two years yet. Keith McGee was the President, and it was easy to grab a prospect and order him, "tell McGee to meet me Church.". He was curt but not unkind; some of the hazing he'd seen the others do to prospects was disgusting. He believed in a little hazing, sure, but he'd heard in the Belfast charter that a prospect had been told to clean the bathroom with his toothbrush, and then use it to brush his teeth. Poor bastard didn't even get his top rocker.
Another thing to add to the list, John mused as he sauntered into the room that was set apart for Church. It was decorated similarly to the one in Charming, with a huge wooden table carved with the insignia of the club dominating the room. There were a few ashtrays dotted about on the table, but that was par for the course. JT sometimes would swear that the smoke was so thick that he couldn't see the other side of the room. It was usually followed by a teasing remark from one of his brothers that it surely wasn't them, they didn't smoke with looks of faux innocence on their faces. Like they were telling their mothers that they were just holding the cigarette for a friend, honest, they weren't smoking it.
There was a hesitant knock at the door before it opened to reveal McGee. He looked nervous, but John figured he would be too if he'd had to President of the club on his ass for nearly two years, watching over every move. "Come on, sit down brother." He was calm and knew he was in control. McGee knew it too from the seat he took. They echoed their seats in Charming - John at the head of the table and McGee two seats down the right side.
"Don't look so worried, it's nothing bad. More of a heads up than anything else." John didn't want to spook him with the seats but he needed McGee to know who was in charge, and although he had his own charter now, he still answered to JT.
McGee nodded and lit a cigarette. He waited in silence throughout his first few drags, whether for JT to talk or for his own thoughts to compose themselves. JT had never lost a waiting game, and wouldn't start now. "A few of the lads have noticed that you've been keeping to yourself this past week. Looking real pensive. Prospect even said that he could see the hamster running on a wheel in your head," he chuckled.
JT nodded. "Lads're right. I've been doing some thinking." He took a moment to light his own cigarette, taking the lighter McGee offered. "You've done well, you've done really well setting up SAMBEL. I'm proud of you for it." His tone conveyed that had the pair been close enough, John would've been putting a brotherly hand of congratulations on the other man's shoulders. JT took a deep breath, knowing that what came next might not be taken well. McGee nodded at JT's praise, and looked forward, fully focussed when John continued. This would be something important, he could feel it. "But, I've been thinking." He hesitated and took a moment to gather his thoughts. "I've been thinking that business, as it is now, can be dangerous, brother. You need something to keep the police, and the taxman looking away from SAMBEL. I want you to set up a legitimate business, whether that be the bar or something else. Something like TM, back home."
It wasn't taken as poorly as he feared it would be. McGee didn't offer his thoughts, but he did lean back on his chair letting out a considering hum. John could see his fingers twitching as they always did when McGee was debating something with himself. It was a bad habit that they had mostly cured him of. It was better than the length ranting with accompanying wild gestures he'd started with.
McGee had leaned onto the table, bracing himself against his forearms with his hands together. "I think you're right John. It's a good idea. Brings some more money in, and in a way that's completely legal." It was relief that sent John feeling a bit boneless as his hand shook when he stubbed out the butt. They needed to vote it in, but with the support of the charter and club Presidents, it was almost a sure thing. "Maybe some of the boys'll have an idea of what this business will be. Too much club shit goes down in here," McGee gestured around at the clubhouse. "It'd be a bad idea to open it up completely."
John couldn't argue with that. It was why the clubhouse and the garage remained separate although they were on the same plot of land. They had a good range of people in SAMBEL, they would all know what appealed to their demographic and what their skills were. It would take time to set up after a decision was made, but John wouldn't be there for that.
He'd stay to see the idea voted in, but it was past time that he went home.