There's a scar on his knuckle in the shape of a knife. He got it from fighting Chris Columbo one afternoon in seventh grade. Chris and his three friends cornered him by the chain-link fence in the baseball field. It was the same place where their two groups had fought one another, back when Brad made them invincible.
"You're not so tough now that your leader's gone, are you?" Chris sneered. He must have picked this spot out of some stupid thirst for poetic justice. This was where he'd been humbled and beaten, so this was where he'd take his revenge.
Sticky throat-punched him, and the boys pounced like a pack of wolves.
Either Larry or Tom swung the first blow that hurled him back. Then Sergei kicked his wind out of his stomach and Chris smacked him so hard he went stumbling. An open wire split his hand on the way down. When Sticky threw his forearms up to cover his face from their blows, blood already dripped from his hands.
The next day, Joan gasped at his mango-sized bruises and caressed his twisted wrist. "What happened to you?"
"I fell."
"That's a filthy lie!"
"It's the truth."
She looked at Cheeks and Rick, who shrank within themselves. "Do you guys believe him?" They looked down at their worn brown desks. "Guys?" In that moment, they were not boys but statues, petrified by the fear that they were next. "Why aren't you talking to me?"
"It doesn't matter. Let it go," Sticky said.
"This was Chris, wasn't it?" She slammed her fist on the desk. "He's the one behind this. We need to tell the teachers!"
"I'm not a snitch." He glared at her.
"That—that—" she shook her head like a wild dog shaking water from its fur. "That's such a pointless thing to say! You're not a 'snitch' if you try to get justice. They wronged you. You need to make them stop!"
Sticky lifted his chin, fixing her with a look of pure contempt. "Men don't tell on each other."
"Good thing I'm not a man, then." She hopped out of her seat and flew through the classroom's front door. Sticky knew exactly who she tattled to: the new science teacher she loved so much. It must have been him, for she returned to class with the same smug look she always got after their private meetings.
"You're welcome," Joan said as she approached her desk, which was right in front of his.
"For what?"
Smiling like the Cheshire Cat, she slid into her seat and spun around with such speed that her rusty braids smacked him in the face.
Things were different after that. Sticky always sulked throughout the school, scanning every room. One eye searched for his father; the other watched out for the Columbo and the Gents. Every corner he turned was a potential sucker punch.
Yet after Joan's words, Columbo's gang avoided him like the plague. No longer did they linger on the edge of his vision, like vultures waiting for a dog to die. In P.E., they didn't prowl over to wherever Sticky and his friends were sitting. After school, they stopped cornering Cheeks; during class, they stopped mocking Rick. There were no more chokeholds, no surprise kicks to the groin. Overnight, their belligerent cruelty faded from a constant threat to a distant memory.
But the hate remained. Sticky walked past Columbo's desk every day in the first period, stiff-backed and avoidant. Although they never met eyes, Sticky could feel the malice radiating off of the other boy. One day, he walked into the bathroom, saw Columbo at the sinks, and immediately turned around. Fuck that, he thought. Chris looked like he wanted nothing more than to rip Sticky's head off. His hands had twitched as he washed them in the sink, his pupils dilated, but his fingers slowly relaxed and his eyes narrowed. Like his first instinct had been to pounce and he had to force himself to relax.
Thanks to whatever Joan had done, Columbo's personal vendetta had new layers. Now below the base of bloodlust, disappointment simmered. Above that, entitlement. A hideous mix of I want to hurt you, I have the right to hurt you, but now I cannot and I detest you for it.
Sticky imagined Columbo looking at him and thinking, Just you wait, cockhead. One of these days I'm going to get you.
But maybe that was just his imagination. Rick and Cheeks drank in the newfound freedom like doves bathing their feathers in a fountain. They laughed more freely than ever before, volunteered in class and joked with the girls. All without the fear of a withering word from Chris cutting their reputations in half.
Throughout it all, Joan sat behind her tiny wooden desk like a queen on a throne. Every inch of her chubby body radiated sanctimonious pride.
For a while, Sticky tried to maintain his aloof demeanor. After a few weeks, though, curiosity overpowered his desire to appear cool. "Joan, what the heck did you do?"
She shrugged. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes, you do. Tell me what you did to make him stop."
"Who?" Sticky didn't respond. He pointed to Columbo, who clicked his tongue at the deer resting by his feet. Spaghetti smacked her lips as he slipped a banana slice between her teeth. "Aah." Joan cleared her throat. "Well, that doesn't matter, does it?"
"Tell me, Joan." Sticky pushed on, slipping some anger into his voice. (She always crumbled under anger.) "What did he do?"
"I…" She glanced at him, saw he wouldn't fall for any fanciful lies. "I don't know what he does. All I know is he gets results."
Sticky leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms. "Hm."
"I'm telling the truth!" Red crept down her white cheeks, spreading over her thick neck. Her voice spiked in distress. Then, the teacher told them to hush and the class turned to stare at them. Columbo lifted a brow over his sunglasses, and taught Sticky that it's possible to eat in a threatening way. He chewed his pineapple chunks in slow cow-bites like the fruit was a bone he wanted to crunch between his teeth.
Sticky sighed and fell into silence. As always, Joan was deliberately vague and subtly condescending. As time passed, he grew used to her strange ways.
Her generosity helped the transition. A few weeks after Brad disappeared, his remaining friends fell into a nebulous, uncertain state of loss. Joan started searching for a substitute. Rick came from a good family, so he didn't need help; Cheeks often went overlooked in his crowd of siblings, but his parents loved him. As for Sticky—well. After that day in the bathroom, she knew what went on in the Angoneli household. More than she had any right to.
So she started hovering over him, like a mother hen, clucking at his heels. One day, his stomach growled after he inhaled the scant scraps from his school lunch. He was hungry for more, so she pounced at the sign of weakness. "Do you want me to get you something?"
"I'm not a charity case!" He snapped, and she shrank back.
"You can have half of my sandwich, if you want it."
"I said no."
She looked down, and Rick shot him a stern look. So what? Sticky knew her game. Now that Brad was gone, she needed another poor kid to lord herself over. She was nothing without someone to force herself onto. Just like the colonists they learned about in history class, she invaded territory where she wasn't wanted. Oh, but I have cool stuff you want! I come in friendship! Let me in, and I promise things will be better for you!
Yeah, right. One minute you let her into your house. The next minute, your dad's in prison, you're plucked out of school and your friends never see you again. Sticky knew better than to fall for that, so he swatted her away. He was more than a pet project for some bored farm girl. He wasn't going to be her second Brad.
One day, he opened his desk to find a shiny green lunchbox tucked among his school supplies. He didn't know how or when she slipped it in there, but when he jabbed a finger into her arm fat and demanded to know why she did it, she looked confused. "I thought you brought your lunch today?"
"I didn't."
She nodded at the shiny aluminum box in his hands. "It looks like you did."
"I've never seen this lunchbox in my life."
"Neither have I," she insisted.
"You're such a liar."
"You can believe me or not. I don't care at all. But I didn't put my hands anywhere near your desk, so leave me alone." She shrugged and turned her head towards the front of the class.
Pride told him not to eat the handouts, but hunger won in the end. And damn if it wasn't delicious: She'd made a ham sandwich with homemade mayo and slices of Monterey Jack cheese. It was much better than the meager school lunches he bought on his dad's allowance.
The one time Sticky asked for more lunch money, he got a backhand to the face. "Your bitch of a mother only gives so much in child support!"
"She's gotta give more than that," Sticky had insisted. "Where does the rest of it go?"
Dad beat him for his insolence. A harsh lesson, but a firm reminder: Don't ask questions you already know the answer to. When dad cashed mom's checks and burned her letters, he spent the smallest portion possible on his son.
Every extra dollar shot itself straight into his bloodstream. Dad would fall and twitch on the floor, laughing like a milk-drunk baby, high on his ex-wife's money and blissfully ignorant of his starving son.
When Sticky finally summoned the bravery to intercept his mother's monthly check, his heart pounded in fear.
Dad was working late that day. Sticky was the only soul in the house, but still he felt too scared to turn the kitchen light on. If dad caught him, there would be hell to pay, so he slipped into his bedroom and locked the door with a click like a thunderclap. Sliding under the covers, he shone a flashlight onto the envelope, reading the address. His mother had moved a hundred miles away, and it looked like she'd reclaimed her maiden name. No more Nancy Angoneli; it was as if her first marriage had never existed. (What kind of life was she living without him? Did her current friends even know she had a son? Or was he just a blot on her memory?)
Sticky tore open the letter and took out the check. Gaped at the cash amount, simmered with anger—for this much money, he should be fat with a room full of expensive clothes and games. How does dad waste this all? There's no reason we should be living in squalor with a monthly check like this!
Every inch of his body burned to grab the check and run to the bank. He could sleep over at Rick's house; his dad might not even notice for a few days. But logic and self-preservation compelled him to slip the check back. Next, he took out the letter mom wrote, a one-page note on high-quality paper. It felt like vellum, thick and heavy in his hands. He stroked the paper in wonder, imagining his mom sitting down and writing in her elaborate cursive font.
He jolted when he realized it was addressed to him, not his dad.
Dear Tony,
I hope you're doing well. If you could please write back to me to let me know you're getting these, I would really appreciate it. I know you're mad at me, but I want you to be able to meet your little sister someday.
She's the sweetest little baby, and I hope she can grow up with her big brother looking out for her, especially since she's so sickly. She deserves a protector, and I know you have it in you to be better than your father…
The words blurred, and he crumpled the paper. Ripped it to shreds. Screamed and stomped and cursed her for moving on and replacing him.
Why didn't she take him? Why did she leave him here? Was she afraid he'd hold her back, stop her from marrying whatever man gave her this new baby?
He was so angry he threw his fist in the wall and punched until his hand went numb.
Of course, his father didn't notice the hole in the wall until years later. Why would he? No one thought he was worthy of notice. Not his mom, not his dad. The only people in his life who cared were his friends, who were startled when they saw his bruised and swollen hand the next day.
"Tony, what did you do?" Joan cried out.
"Nothing, Mom," he sneered.
They exchanged a long look. The last time she wore that ghastly expression they'd been holding hands in the schoolyard and she started ranting at God. "I'm sorry," he whispered, and she looked away.
It was the first and last time he ever called her "Mom." She didn't deserve such a nasty nickname.
Sticky tried not to think about the day Joan cried by the trees, clutching his hand like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to reality. It was like she'd been possessed, some kind of demon whispering about the end of the world. He watched her closely as the years slipped by, but she never showed another sign of that dead-eyed despair. Over time, she became a consistent friend, slipping him gifts when he wasn't looking and lying about it to spare his pride.
When his father got busted for selling drugs to high-schoolers, Joan offered him her guest bedroom. "It's better than spending the weekend alone in your house," she had said.
He declined with a shrug, eyes averted. "I'd rather stay at Rick's place, actually. But...thanks."
"You're welcome," she replied, her tone easy, as if she knew he wouldn't accept.
As they grew older, her presence lost its grating edge, but they never quite warmed to each other. They endured each other's company for the sake of Rick and Cheeks.
Sticky's thoughts lingered in the past, his finger tracing the knife-shaped scar on his knuckles, when the diner's front doorbell jingled.
His gaze shifted instinctively, catching sight of Joan as she stepped into the diner. Her tall, broad frame glided in like a breath of autumn air, her sunflower-patterned skirt swaying with each confident step. The pumpkin-colored cardigan draped over her broad shoulders, a soft contrast to the diner's sterile interior. She still wore the remnants of her awkward youth—her long face, the ears that seemed a little too large for her features, and that small mouth perpetually curved downwards. At least she had the sense to tame her hair, exchanging the plain twin braids of her childhood for a neat French braid that cascaded down her back. The lighter frames of her glasses suited her better, too, though he had always preferred women who didn't need them at all.
Sticky swallowed, his gaze dropping to the table. She looked like she should be baking cookies for her kindergarten class, not meeting up with a stoner who settled for a high school education, operated rollercoasters, and dealt drugs on the side.
"Hey, Tony! It's been quite some time, hasn't it?" Joan's voice was warm, carrying the familiar cadence of an old friend.
"It's Sticky," he said automatically. The old irritation had dulled over time, replaced by a resigned acceptance. They had their script, and he wouldn't stray from it.
Joan ignored the correction as usual, her smile unflinching. "Am I the only one here? Where are the others?"
His hand twitched toward the cigarette pack in his shirt pocket, but he stopped himself, suddenly conscious of the need to appear more...right around her. He always felt the pressure to rise to her level of dignity, never quite able to be himself. "They'll be here soon. You're just early as always."
Joan's dark eyes widened slightly in surprise, a look that conjured a distant memory of a cow at a harvest festival. His mother had lifted him over the petting zoo fence, and he had marveled at the cow's large, expressive eyes. It was one of the rare moments he had shared with her, a moment of warmth and wonder.
"Well, that's normal in my line of work!" Joan said, bringing him back to the present. "If you're not 15 minutes early, you're considered late."
Sticky smirked, leaning into their familiar banter. "This ain't work, though, is it? You're meeting up with old friends. Relax. Let your hair down."
"Pssh." She shook her head, and they fell into a rhythm, chatting about their lives. But as Joan spoke of her university projects and meetings with high-profile figures, Sticky felt the familiar gnaw of inadequacy creep in. His grip on the edge of the table tightened, his smile faltering.
But, hey, you're doing better than somebody, he thinks, his mind flickering to his father, who was different after his stint in jail. Flaccid. Weak, but every bit as bitter.
"To tell the truth, I'm a little bummed because I have to head out of town soon," Joan was saying. "My boss invited me to a big meeting tomorrow night. I'll be sitting at the same table as the governor. Can you believe that? Oh, I feel so overwhelmed!"
Sticky nodded, the words catching in his throat. He traced the scar on his knuckles again, grounding himself against the rising tide of her success. "Yeah, that sounds ... huge. You'll do great, though."
The front doorbell rings again, and Cheeks strolls in, wearing a soft pink suit and a merry grin. Before Sticky can lift his hand, Cheeks throws a finger over his lips, signifying silence.
What is he up to? Sticky can't help the smile that tugs at his lips. Joan goes on and on about how prestigious and important her boss's family is, and Cheeks creeps closer, his green eyes sparkling with mischief.
"Anyway, that's enough about me." She's blissfully unaware of the man behind her. "Tell me about yourself! How are things going in the roller coaster business?"
"I'm sure it's got its ups and downs!" Cheeks bellows into her ear. He seizes her shoulders from behind and gives her a friendly shake, not too rough but enough to make her scream in surprise. Sticky's lips twitched as Joan gasped, caught off guard for once.
"Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" Joan gasps. "I didn't even hear you come in. Are you sure you're a comedian? Or are you a secret spy? Good Lord, that was terrifying!"
Cheeks slides into the booth beside her, wearing a wide grin. "Why not both? Any talented man can multitask. I travel the country telling jokes by day, but by night, I break the hearts of beautiful foreign spies."
"Oh, yeah!" Sticky snaps his fingers. "By the way, how was your special? You filmed it a while ago, right?"
With Cheeks here to mitigate Joan's intensity, Sticky feels the tension in his shoulders relax, and he leans back in his seat, smiling as the blond man starts talking about his status as a rising star in Olathe's vibrant, whacky comedy scene. Eventually he starts telling them how he got his current gig after telling jokes at the town's seedy comedy club for months.
The way Cheeks tells it, this older, suave gentleman approached him after he left the stage, taking him by the elbow and offering to buy him a drink.
"So once we're at the bar, he looks at me and points and goes, 'You've got moxie, kid. I liked that bit you did about the fish people and the labs. You're riffing on the news—stuff people care about—but you're making it approachable. That's what the people want. You gotta pick timely topics, but make 'em palatable.'"
Joan licks her lips nervously, her eyes flicking away. She mutters under her breath, "I still don't get how anyone thinks that is funny."
Cheeks doesn't seem to hear. "So I go, 'Yeah, right? In times like these, you've gotta find humor in all the madness. I mean, talking genetically modified fish? That's just... nuts!'"
Joan nervously caresses her braid, but gives Cheeks an encouraging smile. He didn't seem to notice her awkwardness, plowing forward with his story. "So the guy says, 'No shit, it's crazy stuff. But if you can handle crazy, you can handle my production company. Ever heard of it? Dick Dickinson Productions?'"
Sticky chokes on the coffee he'd been drinking.
"I know, right? I thought he was joking!" Cheeks says, gesturing at Sticky. "So I say, 'Wait, are you shitting me? Who names a production company 'Dick Dickinson Productions?' Is that, like... a placeholder title?' So the guy goes ... get this ... He's like, 'It's named after me.'"
Joan shakes her head, smiling despite herself. "Was he joking?" She asks.
Cheeks grins and gives her shoulder a playful tap. "That's what I thought! I'm like, 'Oh. Your... real name is Dick Dickinson?' Cause obviously I don't believe him. But this old guy puffs himself up, all fancy-like, and goes, 'That's right, buddy. I'm Dick Dickinson the Fourth.'"
Sticky lets out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. "No way. This can't be real. You're making this up, right?"
"No, I'm not!" Cheeks' grin widens, soaking in the reaction like it's the best thing that's happened all week. He straightens up, clearly feeding off their attention. "I ask him if he's being for real, and he gives me this glower." Cheeks mimicks the man, turning his fleshy, round face into a stern expression. "'Do I look like I'm joking?' He goes."
Joan's cheeks are red from how hard she's snickering. "What did you say?"
"I don't know what to say at this point," Cheeks tells her. "I just tell him I think it's tough to tell if he's kidding or not since I don't know him that well. He didn't seem to like that. He gets all sour and says, 'I'd think a comedian would come up with something funnier to say than that.'"
Sticky clicks his tongue, pissed that someone would speak to his friend so rudely. Cheeks flashes him an appreciative smile before continuing, "So I say to the guy, 'Well, you come from a long line of dicks. I mean, it's a pretty obvious joke, right?'"
Joan nods approvingly. "Good retort," she says.
Now Cheeks' own face seems to be reddening from his laughter. "So the man—hehehe—he goes, 'Hey, if you're gonna work at Dick Dickinson, you gotta go for the jokes no matter what. I don't like dudes who let jokes slide just because they're too polite. Don't be afraid to go for the low-hanging fruit.'"
Sticky knows where this is going. "Uh-oh," he says playfully, putting an elbow on the table and leaning closer to hear the punchline. "So what did you say?"
Cheeks gives him a sly smile. "I say, 'I know you're getting up there in years, but I bet your balls haven't hit the floor yet.'"
The table erupts with laughter—Sticky's coffee nearly goes flying, and Joan's snickers are so loud it's like she might choke. Cheeks just sits there, grinning like a maniac, feeding off the chaos.
They're probably drawing strange looks from the other patrons, but Sticky can't tell through his blurry vision. Damn, I needed this, he thinks. I wish we could hang out more often.
Sticky and Joan can't help but ask follow-up questions about the strange guy Cheeks works for — and he's all too happy to appease his audience.
"He works me like a dog, but he's pretty cool. Treats me like a son, for the most part," he says.
"Does he not have children of his own?" Joan wonders.
"The weird thing is, he has a son," Cheeks says. "But apparently the kid is a total nothingburger. No ambition, no drive, no personality. Haven't met him, so I can't confirm, but that's what I heard."
Now Sticky leans both of his elbows on the table, leading forward with a mischevious smile. "So what I'm hearing is, the fifth Dick is the worst dick?"
"I guess it is!" Cheeks says, guffawing, right as Joan playfully swats Sticky with a napkin and chides, "Oh, you stop it!"
Sticky can't help but grin, proud of himself for making Cheeks laugh so hard. Making a professional comedian laugh, that's gotta count for something, he figures.
"Hey, don't shoot the messenger," Sticky says with a smirk. "The fifth Dick? Sounds like a handful."
"Ugh!" Joan exclaims, dramatically hiding her face in her hands like she's shielding her delicate sensibilities from his dirty joke. But her shaking shoulders betray her amusement.
In that moment, the doorbell jingles, and a flash of blue darts steps into Sticky's peripheral vision.
"I could hear you goofballs from the street," a warm, low voice says. Rick steps closer to them, taking off his brown hat before meeting Sticky's eyes and throwing his arms open. His slate blue shirt with red polka dots strains over his barrel chest as he calls out: "Hey, friend-o!"
On cue, Sticky slips out of the booth and returns the gesture. Rick's golden belt buckle shines under the lights, but his smile is even brighter when he pulls back from their hug, settling his hands over Sticky's shoulders. "It's great to see you. Gee, I feel like we never see each other nowadays!"
"We're both so busy, I guess. But, yeah, it's great to see you, too," Sticky says. "How's your family?"
"Oh, everything is fine and dandy on the home front." Rick swells with pride. "Junior just started walking last week! He's keeping us on our toes."
Joan perks up. "I don't suppose you have any pictures of the little angel, now do you?"
"You know I do!" Rick's wallet is out in a flash.
Cheeks groans good-naturedly. "Boy, oh boy. I thought I escaped the endless baby photos. You and Shanice are really putting my parents to shame. At this rate, you might as well add 'photographer' to your resume."
Joan beams as she coos over the pictures of Rick's little son, her fingers brushing over the photo of Junior in a vibrant Halloween costume. "Aw, he's so adorable! He's got your smile, Rick. And those eyes — just like his dad's."
Rick chuckles, his pride evident. "Yeah, he's a chip off the old block, alright."
Cheeks leans back, grinning. "I'm surprised Joan hasn't taken credit for that, too. After all, we wouldn't have little Junior without her matchmaking magic."
Joan laughs, a touch of pride in her voice. "Well, I did bring Shanice home that Thanksgiving. I knew you two were meant to be."
Rick shakes his head with a fond smile. "You had me sitting next to her before we even got to the turkey. Poor Shelly didn't stand a chance."
Sticky, leaning back in his seat, allows a rare smile to play on his lips. He remembers that Thanksgiving vividly – Joan's insistence on Rick and Shanice sitting together, her bright eyes darting between them, hopeful and determined.
Joan turns the photo around, showing it to Cheeks. "I'm just glad everything worked out. Look at that face – how could anyone resist?"
Cheeks nods sagely. "The real miracle is that Rick didn't mess it up."
Rick playfully swats at him. "Hey now! It worked out, didn't it?"
Joan's laughter fills the booth, the sound mingling with the warmth of the memory.
"All right, enough with the baby pictures," Rick says, tucking the photos back into his wallet with a sheepish grin. "I know I'm becoming 'that dad.'"
Sticky smirks, appreciating Rick's knack for reading the room. "To be fair, Joan did egg you on."
Joan's cheeks tint a soft pink as she lifts her hands in mock surrender. "Guilty as charged!"
Rick chuckles, a warm, nostalgic light in his eyes. "You've always had a thing for babies," he says, his voice softening as he glances at her. "Remember how you used to fuss over Lisa, kissing her forehead while Brad and I were practicing martial arts in the woods? You were like a little mother hen."
Joan's smile lingers, her gaze drifting briefly as if the memory plays out in her mind. "Well, someone had to look after her while you two were off kicking and chopping and punching the air," she teases, her tone light but affectionate.
Rick hums, and there's a slight pause. Cheeks scratches his nose and looks out the window, his expression turning pensive. After a moment, he leans forward, lowering his voice, "Hey, speaking of Brad... do you guys know if he's okay? I got a weird call from him a while ago."
The room quiets. Joan's smile fades in an instant. "What do you mean?" she asks sharply, her voice tight.
Cheeks shifts, discomfort seeping into his words. "Well, he sounded... off. Way too hyper. He invited me to Lisa's birthday party in a few months."
Joan's breath catches, and for a brief second, her hand twitches toward her coffee cup. "Did you... get a call like that, too?" Cheeks looks from her to Rick, then Sticky, his eyes a little wide.
"No, I got it too," Rick says, his tone cautious. "Yeah, it was strange. His voice... it's not like him to plan something like that, is it?"
"No, it's not," Joan murmurs, her frown deepening.
Cheeks rubs the back of his neck. "I mean, it felt odd. I just... don't get why he'd want us there. What little girl wants a bunch of sweaty men crashing her birthday? I just... I said yes to be polite, but still."
Rick shrugs. "Could be that he's lonely. With his grandpa in the hospital, maybe he's taking on more than he can handle. Planning the party for Lisa could be his way of reaching out."
The coffee cup slips in Joan's fingers, but she catches it just before it splashes. Some spills, staining her shirt. She stares at the mug, still holding it. Her voice is small, distant. "What happened to their grandpa?"
Cheeks softens his voice, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. "He'll be fine. Just a car accident. He's recovering."
Joan nods, but her body is stiff, her expression distant as if she's still processing. "Okay," she whispers, but her eyes have a faraway look.
Rick clears his throat, trying to smooth the tension. "Well, I'm going. Brad's gonna need all the help he can get. I'm sure the party's stressing him out more than he lets on. And I think he could use us there, you know, for moral support. He said it's fine if I bring Junior and Shanice."
Sticky cracks his neck, rubbing the back of his head. "Yeah, I'm going too. I mean... a kid's party ain't exactly my thing, but hey, free food's free food."
Cheeks grins. "Good point, man!" He raises his coffee mug, and they clink it together like champagne glasses.
"You guys are going? To Lisa's birthday party?" Ice seeps into her tone, although she keeps her expression neutral. "You guys — you barely know her. So why would he invite you and not me?"
Sticky can't help but roll his eyes. He hates when she gets so ... imperial. Entitled. "Come on, Joan, you barely knew her either."
That seems to piss her off even more. "I loved her!"
"Eight years ago," he says, raising his voice and cutting her off.
"I still love her! And we were close. No offense, but closer than any of you were," she says, frowning as she gestures around the table.
Sticky shakes his head. "It's been so long, Joan. She probably doesn't remember anything like that."
"Oh! Oh!" Her voice rises and she throws up her hands. "And she knows you very well, does she? Is that what I'm hearing?"
"No, I'm sure she doesn't," Cheeks says, trying to diffuse the tension with a joke. "Kids have such short memories, you know? They're like goldfish!"
"She was a toddler, Joan," Sticky says, feeling exaspirated. "Do you remember everything that happened when you were a toddler?"
Joan's hand go from caressing her braid to squeezing it tightly. "I cleaned her. I fed her. I put her to bed. I still remember her favorite bedtime stories. I should have been invited!"
"Joan, think about things from her perspective," Sticky tries to call upon the last fragments of his patience. "She last saw you when she was a toddler. She last saw us a few years ago—"
"What? When?!" She demands, and the desperation, which is so overwhelming and overblown compared to the mundanity of this situation, makes his last threads of patience snap.
"When we helped Brad move his stuff into his new apartment, Joan," he says, spitting her name like a piece of dirt from his mouth.
Rick's voice softens. "Hey, Joan—"
"But Brad didn't invite me then, either!" Joan cries out.
"You were at university, getting your degree!" Now Sticky's voice is rising. "What were you hoping for, Joan? You really think Brad's going to keep track of everyone he's ever known?"
"I didn't expect him to forget about me!"
Cheeks grimaces and looks out the window, pretending he doesn't see them arguing.
"That's what happens. Things change, people drift apart, it's okay," Sticky says, taking the opportunity to condescend to her and milking it for all its worth. "So what if he forgot you? So what if Lisa forgot you? What's it matter?"
"It matters a lot!" She says, looking distraught.
Sticky opens his mouth to say something nasty, but Rick, ever the appeaser, speaks up. "I'm surprised that Brad didn't reach out to you! He told me he would."
Joan's anger falters, the edge softening as Rick's words settle into her mind. She doesn't look like she believes him, but it's like the flicker of hope is too strong to ignore. "Really?" she asks, her voice falling.
"Maybe he's just been swamped lately, but I don't know. He's been juggling a lot," Rick says.
Her hands loosen their choking grip on her braid, and she goes back to caressing her red hair. "He actually told you he was going to call me?"
"Yes! Geez," Rick tugs his collar, chuckling nervously. "Gosh, I mean—"
"But he hasn't called me," Joan mutters, looking down to the side. She's still tensely coiled like a wire, but her voice has lowered significantly.
"I'm guessing something must have come up," Rick says in a light-hearted tone. "But who knows, honestly? I'm sure it's not personal."
"Doesn't he own it with someone else though?" Joan protests, her hands falling from her braid to her lap. "Doesn't he have that guy, Bob, helping him? I thought they were both co-owners."
"Well, yes, but you're still busy even if you're a co-owner," Rick said gently.
"I suppose you're right," she acquiesces. Still, for the rest of the group's breakfast, Joan's eyes never quite focus on her food as she stirs it, the motion slow and absent.
By the time their plates are gone and their checks are signed, the tension has eased. Rick and Cheeks have done most of the emotional heavy lifting—Joan's obviously still rattled at the thought of being forgotten by Brad and Lisa.
Her arrogance rankles him. He knows he shouldn't get so irritated, but the hysterical way she winds herself up over being forgotten grinds a sore spot.
My own mother forgot about me, and you don't see me crying about it in public, he thinks as she steps up and smooths out her skirt, making room for Cheeks to get out, too.
"Boy, was that nice," Rick says in a light voice, as if there hadn't been any tension. Sometimes, it seems as if he tries to will things away. Sticky appreciates his determination, but he could do without the delusion.
"It was," Joan says, her voice warm and sweet — and Sticky realizes it's unfair of him to glare at her for being delusional when he's so willing to accept it from Rick. That age-old resentment keeps bubbling up, and he hates himself for holding onto it.
She just really brings out his mean streak.
"Heh heh, yeah," Cheeks says, scratching the back of his head. "You, uh, you feeling better, Joan?"
"Oh." Her brown eyes widen. "Y-yes, I am. Thanks for asking, Cheeks. You're a sweetheart."
He grins, nodding at her. "Of course! I gotta be sweet to get you to come back to the home base every now and then." He holds out his arms and she hugs him, gently patting his shoulder when it goes on for a few seconds too long.
"That's right," Rick says before bringing Joan in for a hug, too. They pull away at the same time, in sync as always. "I can't tell you how happy it makes me to bring the gang together. And, uh ..." His voice softens, and he puts a gentle hand on her shoulder. "When the five of us hang out at Lisa's birthday party, it's gonna be even better."
"Aw, yeah, you're right." Joan seems to soften at the confident way he implies she'll be at Brad's party. Of course, she'll need to be invited for that to happen—and if Joan's worries are correct, Brad might have forgotten her.
Then again, it would be so like her to crash the party, Sticky thinks bitterly, then snaps out of his reverie when he sees Joan turning to him.
"Um...bye, Sticky," she says, nodding to him. They're not huggers—not when it comes to each other. He mentally slaps himself for being unneccessarily nasty to her earlier.
"Bye," he says curtly. "Um — sorry for, uh, being a bit of a dick earlier."
She looks surprised. "You are?" she asks, her tone heavy.
Sticky looks at her, pursing his lips, wondering if she's going to try to talk down to him.
It's as if Cheeks senses another argument is brewing. He leans closer, puts one hand on Sticky's shoulder and another on Joan's, staying silent until they both look at him in anticipation. "Of course he's sorry," Cheeks says. "I think he's just a bit tense without his ..." He brings his index and thumb fingers together, putting them to his mouth and making his mouth into an "O" shape.
It takes a moment for Sticky to realize Cheeks is mimicking smoking a blunt.
How the hell can he tell? In truth, he's been a little unnerved by the way some of his clients have been acting. It's been making him want to sober up - but he hasn't told a soul about his desire to cut back.
"What?" Sticky sputters in surprise, but Cheeks gives him that same secretive smile he's had since he was young, his green eyes bright as he realizes his instincts were right. It happens rarely-these flashes of insight-but every time they do, he gets a chipper, gloating air about him, like he's won some secret contest.
Sticky blinks, his mouth opening then closing again. "What are you talking about?" He finally asks.
Am I really that obvious? Sticky wonders. I thought I had a damn good poker face.
"Heh, I can tell you're trying to wean yourself off the stuff," the blond says, giving Sticky a playful poke in the belly. "Always get on edge when you try. You're, like, a lot more..."
"Caustic?" Rick cuts in, lifting an eyebrow at Sticky. "Critical? Unkind?"
"Hey, hey!" Sticky holds his hands up, feeling heat creep up the back of his neck. "I was apologizing for being a jerk, and now you two are on my ass?"
"We're not on your ass," Cheeks says, running a hand through his butterscotch locks and fixing him with a nonchalant smile. "Just saying ... maybe your ass ... needs some more grass." He winks.
"Cheeks!" Rick protests, his voice rising. "You should not be encouraging him to pick up that vice! It's good that he's trying to stop!"
"You guys—" Sticky grounds himself. He doesn't want to ruin this get-together.
"Uh, well, thanks for apologizing," Joan speaks up, giving Sticky a terse nod. "I, I mean, I get why you were ... frustrated. I was ... I guess ... you might have been annoyed by me."
Cheeks, seemingly pleased by the sight of his two friends making up, puts a friendly arm around her shoulder and teases, "You weren't being annoying. You were just being a party pooper! Considering you weren't — invited to the party..." He seems to realize he's pushing at a sensitive spot right as he's speaking, so he tries to rectify it with an awkward laugh. "Heh, heh."
Joan gives him a doubtful look. "Haha, clever pun," she says flatly. "Maybe I'll buy a ticket for your next show."
He snickers, despite her sarcasm. "My next show's on Snow Mountain. You'd better bring your parka!" He gestures down at her outfit. "You'll have to wear something with snowflakes. No sunflowers over there!"
That gets a genuine smile out of her. "If I can't wear florals, I can't go to the show," she jokes, and Rick starts guiding them out of the restaurant and out the front door once the bus boy comes to wipe down their plate.
"What?" Cheeks says once they step outside, fixing Joan with a faux-pleading look. "Not even for little old me?"
She's now playing along with him. "On second thought, maybe I'll check my calendar."
The mention of calendars makes Rick look down at his watch. "Ah, by the way, guys, I've gotta go home soon. I promised Shanice I wouldn't spend more than two hours away, and I want to be a man of my word."
Cheeks grins and swats him on the back when he starts walking away. "I hate it when you go, but I love watching you leave!"
"Stop!" Rick says, pretending to swat him back as he heads off to his car — the second-nicest in the friend group, Sticky notices as his eyes shift from Rick's shining, red 1984 Audi Sport Quattro to Joan's white Porsche 959.
Looking at that gorgeous metallic beast of a vehicle sitting in this shitty parking lot in this shitty little town, Sticky considers college. If a stupid degree could get him a car like that, maybe...
Then he drops the idea as quickly as it came. Not for me. Plus, Dad would probably steal it and crash it anyway.
Cheeks whistles as he follows Sticky's gaze, sauntering up to the car and caressing it as gently as he would a woman's leg. "This is a work of art, Joan. How'd you afford her?"
"Well, I ... I work pretty hard," she says, her voice carefully light. "The corporation I work for — we're contracted with the military, so a lot of funding comes our way. And I'm always taking on new job duties, so I got a promotion recently... and I drive so far so often, all over Olathe, honestly, and for so many reasons ... I wanted the fastest car on the lot, and this was the one."
"No need to feel like you gotta explain yourself," Cheeks says, his movements on the car almost erotic. "You're not on trial."
She looks at Sticky, her expression doubtful.
Then she looks back at Cheeks and grimaces. "Hey, uh, maybe you can feel up your own car?"
Cheeks looks from her to his vehicle, a decent but unglamorous green Jeep. "Yeah, but ... she's not as gorgeous as yours."
"She gets the job done, doesn't she?" Sticky asks, shuffling over to his Jeep and moving his hand over the hood sensually. "If you won't appreciate her, I will."
Cheeks chuckles and moves over. "All right, all right, I'll show her home love." He gives the hood a kiss — then makes a disgusted face. "Ew! She tastes nasty."
"Maybe she hasn't showered. She just needs some time to get ready. You didn't give her any heads up," Sticky teases, enjoying the opportunity to use innuendo.
Joan watches them, looking disturbed. Sticky actually believes her when she says she bought her car simply because the salesman told her it was fast. A country girl like her, who has no idea about luxury cars, would be pretty easy to swindle.
It almost makes Sticky consider taking up a job as a car salesman, but then he remembers how rare people like Joan are, and he figures he'll stay in his lane.
"Well, I've got to head out. Take care, my man," Cheeks says, giving Sticky a bear hug. He whispers in his ear, "I won't judge you if you pick up the Devil's lettuce. The jazz cabbage. The jive parsley. Teh Doña Juanita, if you will..."
"All right, all right," Sticky says, smiling despite himself and hugging him back. "You come back soon, you hear?"
"Will do," Cheeks says, giving him a salute when they part. He gives Joan a wave and the two call out goodbyes before he climbs into his car and drives away.
Sticky stands there awkwardly, walking him drive away, thinking, as he always does, about how unimpressive and pathetic his life is compared to his friends.
He doesn't even have his own car.
And even worse, he realizes once Cheeks' car has blinked out of eyesight, he was so distracted by his goofy weed jokes that he forgot to ask for a ride back.
He could slap his own forehead.
He looks over his shoulder, watching as Joan rifles around her car, seeming to be organizing something in her backseat. He couldn't care less what it is; he only cares about the way the distraction gives him an opportnity to swoop in before she can leave.
"Hey, uh..." The sound of his voice, suddenly so close to her, makes her jolt, and she bonks her head against the roof of her car. When she turns around, she's rubbing her head and wincing. "Could I ... get a ride?"
"You want me to drive you?" She says. "Why? You wanna molest my car, too?"
He can't tell if she's joking or not by her frown. But you can never be too careful with Joan, so he just says, "Nah, just need a ride to my place. You don't mind, do you?"
"Umm..." She steps back and closes the back door of her car, seemingly satisfied with whatever arranging or organizing she'd been doing. "Sure. But, um, you'll have to go with me on a ... detour." The word comes out like a whisper, almost as if she's uncomfortable speaking about it out loud.
But he doesn't care to press her on it. He's just grateful she's saying yes after the way he acted earlier. "Yeah, I'll go with you. Where to?"
She looks to the ground, then at him, then to the ground again. "Um ... I'm going to ... Brad's old house."
"Why, though?" He asks, thinking about the ugly eyesore on the outskirts of the town.
"I just ... want to check something," she says, then squints at him. "You gonna get in, or what?"
He doesn't have to be asked twice.
Sticky's stomach tightens as they pull up to the dilapidated house. The sight of it sends a cold shiver down his spine. It's exactly as he remembers: peeling paint, a crooked mailbox, an air of despair so thick it practically suffocates the place.
Joan doesn't move, not even to shift the car closer. She stops at the edge of the driveway, barely glancing at the mountain of mail clogging the front entryway. Her hands grip the wheel so tightly her knuckles are white. "I just... I need to make sure he's still gone," she whispers, voice shaking.
"Who?" Sticky asks, though he's not sure he wants to know.
Joan doesn't answer. Her eyes are fixed on the house, dark and distant. "Is he still in prison?" she asks, suddenly. After a beat, she specifies: "Marty Armstrong. Brad's dad."
"No. He's been out for a while," Sticky says, his voice thick with hesitation.
Joan's eyes go wide, pupils dilating. "What? But… I thought—was he here?"
"I mean, yeah? He came back here after prison. Spent some time with my dad, who said he was terrified of going back again. He-"
A sour smell of sweat hits his nose, and Joan's leaning forward now, her breath quickening. "Is he still alive?"
"No," he says, voice flat. "He's dead. He passed a while ago."
Joan flinches, like his words hit her like a slap. "No, no, no…" She whispers as if trying to convince herself. Her grip tightens on the wheel. "It can't be. That head... Was it really him?"
Sticky takes a step closer, his voice softer than he means it to be. "Take a breath, Joan. You're okay."
But she's shaking, trembling with something that doesn't seem to be about the house, or even the man. She suddenly throws open the door and stumbles out of the car, falling to her knees and emptying her stomach into the leaves.
Sticky watches, helpless. What the hell is going on? He didn't expect this. He never thought Joan was so broken up about the past.
"I operated on his head." Her voice cracks like glass breaking. She doesn't even look up at him when he approaches.
Sticky puts a hand on her back, rubbing in small, unsure circles. "Joan… what's going on? What do you mean?"
She shudders and finally turns to look at him, eyes wild, and the words spill out of her like she's been holding them in for years. "It was raining. I tried to save Lisa, but he… he caught me, and he—he tried to make me part of the earth. With his fists. He broke me. He broke everything."
The words hit Sticky like a punch to the gut, and his heart aches with guilt and sympathy. "Joan, I—I'm sorry. I never—"
She cuts him off, voice barely audible. "I hated him. I hated Marty so much. For what he did to me. To Brad. To Lisa. I thought we were safe! We put him in prison!" A hysterical laugh falls from her mouth, and she clamps her hand to her lips, as if to shut it in, but the wild, gasping, ugly sounds of raw laughs seep out like blood from a poorly patched wound.
"But we were never safe. We can't escape him. And I - I'll never - I'll never escape this house or the past or the future that looms above my head like a guillotine. But now... I can't escape it. I can't escape this house." She looks up, eyes haunted. "I just want it gone. I just want it dead like he is."
Her words fell out like a tumbling rockslide; each sentence could have crushed him.
"Joan, what?" is all he can respond, his own voice growing hoarse.
The pieces start falling into place. Sticky remembers Joan had been hospitalized for months right around the time Brad disappeared. Although he'd suspected she was involved in Brad and Lisa's departure, Sticky had never known exactly what happened. He'd never been the inquisitive type, preferring to build his own ideas in his head.
Sticky's nose burns at the acrid scent of vomit and coffee. But there's a worse kind of burn he feels as she sways and sweats and groans like her mind is melting. Like she doesn't know what world she's in or what's going on.
It's his blood burning at the realization that Brad's dad beat her, and while her bones have healed, there's something cracked and shattered into pieces that have been lost to time, lost to her need to move on, lost to her refusal to face the past and her unwavering determination to move forward, even when the splintered, broken parts of her scrape against each other and fill with pain.
"He's dead," Sticky says, his voice cracking. "He can't hurt you - or Brad - or Lisa ever again."
"Oh God," she sobbed, dragging out her Lord's game into three syllables, each punctuated by a ragged cry. "He's dead. I - I know he's - he's looking at me now. Watching me." She wiped her eyes. "I bet he's laughing."
"He's not watching you," Sticky's voice comes out fiercer than he meant it to sound. "If you're right and God is real, then he's not in Heaven. He's too busy getting tortured in hell."
Joan laughs, but it's one of those ragged, soundless, horrible laughs. She struggles to breathe, dragging in breaths only to lose them to laughs, and Sticky doesn't know what he can do except pat her back and her head and tell her she's okay in the most soothing voice he can manage.
"He ... he was ... unbearable to be around. So selfish and cruel and he ... he took pleasure in taking from others. Can you believe it?" She scrunches her face, shakes her head as if the idea is unfathomable. "He saw no goodness in giving. He didn't love the grace of God. He had no faith in kindness or forgiveness or boundaries or decency." Her voice broke at the last word.
"He's gone," Sticky says, thinking of his own father, and how kindness and forgiveness and boundaries and decency were strangers to the Angoneli household.
But unlike Brad and Joan, Sticky's tormentor was still alive.
He refused to die.
"His mother," Joan says quietly, breaking him out of his thoughts. "Did you know his mother was told to get rid of him?"
He wonders how on earth she'd known that. Did the creepy freak tell her that? What kind of grown man would tell a child that?
But she's looking at him expectantly, and he feels compelled to answer. "Oh? Uh, was she?"
Joan sniffled softly, her head dipping in a weary nod, a thin trail of tears clinging to her face, tangled in the strands of her hair. Sticky, ever observant, reached out and gently swept a stray lock from her forehead—he knew how much she prided herself on her prim appearance, and the fact that she was too lost in her own world to notice stirred in him a quiet, unspoken urge to care for her in the only way he could.
"Yeah ... his dad didn't want him. He said..." She shuddered. "He said she should have given him away, or aborted him. But abortions were so unsafe back then. And where would she go, a pastor's daughter who knew nothing of the world?"
A sad, pitiful look overtakes her features. "And besides ... she wanted to to be a mother. Ever since she was a little girl, she wanted a baby. Boy or girl, it didn't matter. She just wanted a little person to love and nurture and watch grow into a wonderful member of society. Someone faithful, a God-fearing person who made the world a better place. It was her biggest dream."
The words are ragged and hard to parse together; they scrape together like rusty scissors, one sentence after the other. But he looks into her watery eyes and nods solemnly. "Really?" He asks when she's done.
She whines out a low, "Yeah" before sitting back, no longer retching on her hands and knees. She sits on her rear, and Sticky adjusts to give her room, sitting next to her and wrapping an arm around her shoulder. "Yeah. She wanted a family of her own. She had faith that she could raise her boy to be a good man, that she could make her new family better than her old one."
Joan gestures at Brad's house.
"She thought this could be a happy home."
An itch burns beneath his skin, like insects buried beneath his arms that want to crawl their way out. He doesn't know where this is coming from; maybe she's making it all up. Maybe they're religious ravings. Maybe this is shit Brad's dad-Marty-told her when she was babysitting Lisa. He could believe a man who beat children, exposing them to violence at a young age, would expose other horrible things to them, too.
Intimate details about their lives.
Mature subjects like abortion and trauma they weren't ready for.
After all, what did adults in Olathe care about preserving childhood innocence? Poor and beaten and fucked up kids didn't mean shit to those in power.
A sudden wave of disgust washes over him as he looks at the hideous landscape. These lands were old and stained and rotted. How could anything good grow here?
"Well..." Sticky says. "You ... I mean ... I get why you felt so hurt that — that Brad forgot you. That Lisa—" He realizes he's being mean, even though it wasn't his intention, when she whimpers and buries her face in her knees. "I didn't mean it like that," he says, softening his voice. It's hard. "I just mean that I get why you care so much. I didn't before. I'm sorry."
Though her voice is muffled due to her position, he can make out her response: "You already apologized, Sticky. It's okay."
He huffs out a breath, brushing her bangs out of her face, seeing how some of them cling to her glasses. He doesn't know what to say, so he moves her hair until he can see her clearly. When she looks at him, their eyes meeting, he smiles. "That's the first time you've used my real name."
"Your real..? But Tony's—oh."
"Yep," he says, patting the top of her head before looking away, his eyes returning to the house.
There's so much about you I just don't understand, he thinks. But now I see we're pretty similar.
His mind is spinning with all the newfound information. He already knew Joan babysat Lisa for a short period of a few months. But he hadn't known it was some an intense time. Maybe those kinds of feelings never fade. The term trauma bonding pops up in his brain, something he learned about on a television program that drifts into his thoughts every now and then.
Joan's sobs are quieter now; she's been fighting with herself to regain control of her body, and it seems she's only now starting to win the battle. Sticky looks at her occassionally as she calms herself down, keeping his arm around her shoulder. He hopes it's comforting. But if it's not, she'd probably shrug it away, so he's doing good and comforting her — probably.
Thoughts of their similarities rumble around his mind, strange and awkward and loud as sneakers in a washing machine. There's only so much he can do with the patting and the mumbles of "It's okay." After hurting her with his words earlier today, he wonders if he can use his words to help her heal.
"You know, Joan ... you should call Brad," he says softly. She stills before looking at him, blankly. "I'm sure he'd love to have you at the party."
A fat tear rolls down her cheek. "You think?"
He nods. "Yeah. I think Rick was right. He must have just gotten distracted. But you should definitely go." His throat tightens, and he coughs, trying to free it enough to finish. "You should see Lisa again."
"Thanks, Tony." She sniffles and stands up, legs wobbling a bit. Takes a step towards the house. "You know, I kind of want to go in there now."
"Why?"
"To…I don't know, get some closure. Maybe it will make me feel better."
"You want to break and enter?" He shakes his head. "That's not like you."
"I suppose you're right," Joan murmurs. Still, her eyes are glued to the ugly old home.
"Maybe you can buy it," he ventures, and her head snaps towards him. "Now that Mr. Armstrong's dead, technically no one owns the house. You could—I don't know—burn it or demolish it. Seems to me like this place holds nothing but bad memories. If it makes you upset, maybe you can…I don't know…get some catharsis."
"That's a great idea." She nods slowly. "Maybe…maybe I'll do that. See what my legal options are."
"Sounds good." They settle back into the car, and he pulls out a blunt. "You wanna relax? That was a little intense back there."
"Oh, thanks, but I'm good. Don't want to risk it. Addiction runs in the family."
"Really?" He sets his blunt on fire and inhales deeply. "Your mom n' dad never struck me as the types."
"No, not the Chambers family." She shakes her head. "The family in my past life."
"Oh, geez." He shakes his head, but his hand lingers on the blunt. He doesn't get it. And if he's being honest, he doesn't want to. The world already gave him more than enough to question—he didn't need reincarnation and a potential apocalypse adding to the pile. "Let's not get into that."
She frowns, her lips tightening, as if her secret were being mocked. "You're one of two people who knows that," she says quietly. "And you're the only one who really listens."
"Really? You didn't tell your parents?"
"No, they wouldn't understand."
"Gotta be honest, Joan, I don't even understand it, and I wish you'd let it go. I get that people wonder about their past lives or whatever... but it's kinda freaky when you talk about it like it's real. It's not like you."
"It's not?"
He shakes his head. "Not at all. Let it go."
"It's not that easy," she whispers. A tense silence settles over the car, like she's expecting him to spew out some marijuana-infused wisdom. But he has nothing; his mind is blissfully empty. Finally, Joan sighs and starts the car. It ambles down the road at a leisurely pace. Ever so slowly, the Armstrong house shrinks in the rearview mirror, an ugly blot from the past he hopes to never see again.