If you are inclined to listen to the Willie Nelson tune in this chapter (and why wouldn't you be? Willie! Nelson!), search "Willie Nelson Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain" on YouTube. Skip the duet with Shania Twain. It's too upbeat. Plus it's mostly Shania Twain over-emoting. You have to watch the 1980 Midnight Special version. It is amaaaaaaaaaaazing. Captain and Tennille! And Willie's kickin' 1980 band fashions. Plus, it's just a really good version of this particular song. It makes for a good background to this chapter. Just sayin'.
"What the hell's this?" he asks, taking the envelope, but not bothering to look up at the man from Oceanic.
"It's an apology. Look, we can't imagine how horrific last three years must have been for you. What you lived on. Where you slept." James looks at him then, looks at him with lifeless eyes. The man clears his throat. "Anyway, that check's an apology. You shouldn't have to work again. We're sorry about how you spent the last three years, but we hope that can help you start living life again."
"Got it all backwards, man," is all he can manage to say.
6 MONTHS LATER . . .
James stares into his half-empty pint glass, wondering how many of these he's going to have to go through tonight. It differs: some nights, no amount of beer, whiskey, scotch, tequila does the trick. Other nights it might only take seven or eight beers, four or five scotches and then he can, well, not forget, not exactly, not ever, but he can at least not ache quite so much. He never touches wine. It's too sophisticated and urbane and too much of a reminder and too much what she might . . . no, he doesn't drink wine because the hangovers are too bad. That's why.
He's two and a half beers in tonight, knows he's going to need more. He waves the bartender over, gestures to his pint glass with two fingers to request another.
He waits for the jukebox to pick up his song. He waits for the alcohol to do its trick.
Someone sits on the barstool next to him, even though there are empty chairs on the other side of the bar. He ignores the intruder.
"A-hem," the close-sitter starts attention seeking. Fuck. Why James ever bothered to tell Miles this was his place, he'll never know. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Now Miles has to swing by occasionally to check in on him. What he thinks he's doing, James'll never know. Last week he told Miles, "Ya know, if I was gonna hurt myself, I'd of done it already by now." Still, though, here is Miles with his bi-weekly check-in.
James doesn't even give him a chance to say anything. "Thanks for your concern, Enos, but as you can see, I'm doin' just fine."
"Great," Miles says. Then, to the bartender, "Coors Lite, please."
James snorts. "Don't you got no taste? Why you gotta drink that piss?"
"Sort of got used to the taste. It reminds me of Dharma brew."
James takes a long sip of his beer. "Why the hell would you want to be reminded?" James' drinking has the opposite intent.
Miles doesn't answer. He takes the bottle offered by the bartender.
Another sad country tune starts up on the jukebox. Not James' song, not yet, but still one of them old-school country songs about My Momma's Dead and Daddy's in Jail and My Truck Broke and My Dog Done Run Off and My Gal Don't Love Me No More. Not quite, but close, James thinks.
He says to Miles, "Anyway, you can stop checking in. I ain't drinkin' myself to death. In fact, I'm here doin' research. Gonna be a country music star. Got my first hit single planned and everything."
"That so?" Miles takes another drink, signals the bartender for another bottle.
"Yeah, it'll be called 'My Hippie Van's Broke and My Baby Can't Fix It 'Cause She Blew Up a Nuke.' Or somethin' like that," he says. "It's a work in progress."
"Hilarious."
"Story of my life: one barrel of laughs after another."
Miles winds up to say something, but a new song comes on the jukebox. Miles listens for a second, then says, "Willie Nelson? Are you kidding me? Seriously?"
"Your dad loved Willie Nelson," James notes.
"Yeah, well, he and I didn't exactly spend my teen years bonding over shared music tastes, you know?" Miles notes sadly.
Their whole stay in the 70s, Miles always spoke of his dad with a sneer. James realizes something happened with Miles and Chang at the end of their 70s sojourn. Something changed. Chang was an uptight, pain-in-the ass stickler, but a decent enough guy. 'Cept Miles always called him a douche, always muttered about him abandoning him. Now he don't. Now he looks sad.
James doesn't care to get into it though, got his own miserable life to obsess over. So he says, "Besides, how do you even know this is my song playing?"
Miles listens more. "It's 'Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain.' Of course it's your song."
James raises his eyebrows, impressed at Miles' knowledge of Willie's ouevre. "Thought you hated Willie."
"Maybe I'm trying something new. Trying to understand my dad a little better."
James wonders again what happened to Miles and Pierre. He even considers asking, but says instead, closing his eyes while he does so, "Hush up now. This is my favorite part." Pretty much admitting this is indeed his song. And why not?
The music isn't even completely over when Miles launches into what James thinks is the world's longest monologue. Miles talks too much. Always did. But James doesn't stop him. Miles is one of the three little bears of conversation. The only one left.
Miles starts by shaking his head, then waving his arm over in the direction of the jukebox. "OK, this? Willie? Your favorite part? It's ALL WRONG. It's just a damn country song, OK? Do you know how many dead people I've talked to? A ton. And you know what? Willie's wrong. There's no magical meeting 'up yonder.' There's no 'strolling hand in hand again.' Gag. Give me a break. People die, and that's it. This is what we have. Here. Now. And even if such a place existed, do you really think you of all people would have your ticket punched to the great 'land that knows no parting'? So stop living in some lala land."
Miles pauses, but only to catch his breath, before yammering on more. "You are such a self-centered bastard. You think the only reason I come in here all the time is to check on you. Well, guess what? Wrong. I come here because you're all I've got. I was gone for three years, and now I'm back, and I don't have friends anymore. Or the ones I still have . . . they don't get it, OK? I can't tell them anything, and I'm confused and sad and angry, and you're the only friend I've got. I don't come here because I think you need me. I come here because I know I need you. And all you're doing is drinking and forgetting, and what? Waiting to die? A wise man once said to me, 'We've been here six months, and there's no point spinning our wheels while we wait. That's boring and depressing. We have to start living life.' I need you, man, so join the living."
"Don't got anything to live for, man."
Miles shakes his head in disappointment. "You have a daughter, don't you?"
James doesn't respond. Miles takes that as invitation to keep yapping. "Listen real close, LaFleur. You got a what? Eight-year-old kid? Yeah, little girl you never met before. She's your family, and now you get a chance to be part of that. There are some people I won't bother to name who'll never get that chance. One's got a daughter he's never going to meet, and the other's got an eight-year-old nephew she's never gonna meet. I bet if either of them got a chance like you've got, they wouldn't waste it. They'd probably do anything . . . hell, they already did anything, and it's you who gets the chance. You. I've given you six months, but I'm done. All up to you now. Don't disappoint me, man. Don't disappoint them. And, you know what? If you're right? If Willie's right? If there's a 'land up yonder,' well, then, while you're 'strolling hand in hand again,' have fun explaining why it is you wasted the chance she didn't get. Be sure to let me know how that goes over."
James won't look at his friend. Miles stops talking long enough to pull his wallet from his back pocket. He puts a pile of bills on the bar, sets his empty beer bottles on top. The blessed silence is short-lived, however.
"Anyway, 'living life.' It was good advice then, and it's good advice now. So, I'm gonna take it. I won't be in here bugging you anymore." He tosses a piece of paper next to his pile of bills. "There's my number. Call if you decide to get your head outta your ass. Second number's Kate's. Claire and Aaron and Grandma Whatserface go back to Australia in two weeks. Kate could probably use a friend, if you even care. Third number's your daughter's. Kate said give her a little while to settle in after Aaron leaves, and she can help you out there. Or, you know . . . not. Keep on drinking yourself into a stupor every night. No skin off my nose. Later, pal."
James doesn't bother to turn and watch him leave. He thinks it'll be a relief to not have Miles on his ass anymore. The bartender comes over to bus Miles' empties. He picks up the cash. "This yours, fella?" he asks, holding out the page of phone numbers.
James stares at the numbers. Miles' handwriting. "Nah. My friend left that here. You can toss it."
The bartender crumples the note in his hand.
How many times has he read one of Miles' reports? Security log entries? Scribbled notes left on his desk? Notes and notes and notes.
Phil is a prick, and if you schedule him for my shift again, I'm quitting.
Jin still on for Sat. 6:30 AM. Don't be late, he'll kick your ass.
Juliet stopped by. Working late tonight. Wants you to bring her dinner. Can you bring me dinner too, pretty please?
"Wait, no," James reaches out for the bartender. "Hand me that paper." The bartender complies. James reads the numbers in Miles' familiar scrawl. And at the very bottom a final note from Miles:
I loved them, too, man. I'll miss them forever. Don't make me miss you too. CALL YOUR DAUGHTER.
