It's snowing in Jubilife. Lucky Andy's Taphouse is empty, and I'm wiping down this counter for the fourth time in an hour. The tang of cleaning products freshly applied to a hardwood floor hangs in the air. The bar currently holds exactly one bartender (me) and one stingy, balding man in his forties. Strange that he was here at almost two in the afternoon. If he'd come here for lunch it would be different but we didn't serve food. I'd heard from more than one customer say that it was probably better that way, something about Glen not knowing what seasonings were. The man's face had turned to a disgusted grimace when he drank from the tumbler. He'd been nursing that drink for nearly an hour, paying more attention to his phone and crossword puzzle instead. With nothing else eventful happening, I clicked on the TV and turned up the volume. It was one of the few things that Glen had heeded my advice on, replacing that outdated behemoth of a television and upgrading to a current model. Of course that meant I had to help move that heavy piece of garbage out of the bar, but at least I got to watch tournament matches when it was slow. Speaking of…
The balding man, hearing the noise of the television, lifted his head from his phone to grain his neck towards it before turning his attention to me.
"Do you know who's battling?" he muttered, a nervous tinge to his voice. It was like he was afraid of being heard, but the bar was empty.
"It'll be back in…oh, there it is. Yeah, Caiden Andrews and…," the words died in my throat before I realized I'd stopped mid-sentence. "Teysa Harlow," I finally managed to get out.
"Oh, wow! She's a favorite to win the Conference this year, I'm surprised she's battling in a tournament during the regular season," the man began rambling excitedly. "Do you know her? She's from Jubilife, and I think she'd be about your age."
I put on my bravest face before picking up a pristine glass and cleaning it with a rag.
"Nah," I lied, "Never met her."
"Ahh, that's too bad. It'd be great to know a celebrity. Friends in high places, y'know?" the balding man chuckled before pushing his tumbler forward on the bar, and I collected the glass with a smile.
Yeah, but friends in high places aren't paying my bills.
The battle wasn't terrible but it was clearly a one-sided match and I couldn't keep myself from watching. The man with the crossword puzzle hadn't been wrong, Teysa Harlow was a favorite to win for a reason. Not just this tournament either, but the Sinnoh conference too. She'd only needed her Starmie and Eelektross to take down everything Caiden had thrown at her. I watched those battles a lot, and I wondered if she enjoyed it. She had to, right? Not everyone loves their job but her's isn't the type you end up with, it's the kind other people envy you for.
The man put several bills on the counter, way more than the price of his drink, and quickly left without saying a word. I collected the cash, putting the excess in the tip jar and thanking the man in my head. Really, the tip jar was just a formality. I was the only employee besides the owner, Glen, who worked the three days out of the week that I didn't, which left me free to pick up other work. I had asked for more hours. He had politely, firmly, then emphatically denied me.
Free wasn't how I'd really describe it. Necessity, more like. As much as I wanted to complain, Glen's schedule made it hard for me to pick up other consistent work. Most employers wanted you free Monday to Friday, and almost always available to come in on Saturdays. So, you might imagine that lacking education and real-world skills as well as being unavailable most of the week, opportunities for me were quite scarce. I'd managed to pull together some part time work that filled in the holes of my schedule. On Sunday and Tuesday, I stocked shelves at Jaffa Mart, and on Thursdays I unloaded delivery trucks at a local warehouse. The drivers weren't always nice and the warehouse manager was downright unpleasant, but they paid the best out of each of my jobs even if I hated the work. Scraping together a living like this wasn't ideal, and working for three different employers meant I didn't meet the hourly requirement to qualify for health insurance from any of them. Which meant if I got hurt or sick, I was hosed.
When the ads for men's hygienic razors and sugary sports drinks begin playing, I begin taking inventory around the bar. There are no dishes, all of the glasses are clean and the ice machine is full. We needed another case of Fuego Stout, and another keg of Iron Island Draft. The floor had already been mopped before my only patron of the day had left.
I picked up the lone glass of cheap whiskey that I had meant to toss and clean. I raised it to my lips, inhaled the aroma of it, and promptly dumped it into the sink. I couldn't do it.
Several hours pass, slow and uneventful as evening rolls in. The battles on TV are my only company in this place. Winter is a slow time of year for a bar that relies primarily on foot traffic. Eight hours pouring drinks paid exactly the same as eight hours watching daytime television. Eventually, I'm pulled out of my stupor by the ring of the door chimes and a group of office workers piling into a booth. They've loosened their ties, shrugged off their jackets and coats, and a few bottles of cheap wine are ordered to their table. I envy them a little, a lot actually if I'm being honest. Who wouldn't? They probably had jobs they tolerated or liked, a decent paycheck and free time, hobbies, goals, friends, lovers, partners. I struggled to pay rent and couldn't get a day off if I wanted to. In the middle of another battle, I glance up and watch as they leave a pile of bills on the table. One of them gives me a wave that I can't bring myself to return, while another excitedly talks about finding another bar nearby. I collect their money, which makes it all the more infuriating when I actually count the pile and find it comes up short, only to realize that they've left me several wine glasses filled with coins and bills of varying amounts. One of these office schlubs must've had a bad day, because the last glass is nearly full, wine brought just to the brim with coins that are sunk at the bottom of it, weighing down another Pokedollar bill. I empty the other glasses, decant the nearly overflowing one into another and count up what's left. It covers the rest of their bill and leaves me with just a handful of wine soaked coins that I rinse in the sink before tossing them into the tip jar. I want to scream, but I have the rest of my shift left and I can't lose this job. I go to the back room and collect myself before returning to the bar.
Awaiting me are three men sitting at the bar. I hadn't heard them come in. They look to be in their thirties, all of varying build. The first, a thinner man with close cropped dark hair, speaks up.
"Couple a drafts for me and the boys here. Start a tab, if you don't mind," he says with a grin. His friends chuckle at that, but I don't think too much of it. I make a mental note of their total, then pour three mugs for them. I click the remote, raising the volume for the next battle, another mid-season tournament, this time in Sunyshore. I didn't recognize either of the names, but one of them led with a Sceptile, a rarity for the cold climate of Sinnoh. The barrel-chested man with a reddish beard addresses me.
"You like Pokemon battles?" he asks.
I tell him that I do, that it was what I've always wanted to do.
"That's a shame. Damn crying shame," he muses.
I turn my head to respond when several pairs of hands grab me, and I'm pulled from behind the bar to painfully crash into the hardwood floor. The world around me is a blur at first, but before I can get my bearings I'm struck and kicked at from several angles, pushing me down to the floor. Reflexively, I curl up and cover my head to prevent the worst of the damage. In the melee, two of the men are shouting, there's wood and glass being broken. I roll onto my back, and the last thing I'm greeted with is the man with the red beard smiling down at me as the underside of a muddied boot approaches me and everything fades to black.
I remember the day it happened. I didn't really like to think about it.
My Mom worked really hard to support me. It had only ever really been the two of us after all. She had no family, and we hadn't seen or heard from my father in almost a decade. His family, if they were out there, had never contacted us. I don't know if it was guilt, or maybe they just didn't care.
Before the accident, my Mom worked in a machine shop. She was fairly active and good at her job and it paid enough for us to get by. We weren't starving, but like most people we definitely could've been better off.
On a cold and rainy November morning, a car collided with my mother's vehicle. The driver was bruised but otherwise fine. The damage had wrecked the old beat up sedan my mother owned for years, and put her in the hospital. I was fifteen at the time, about to sit through another class in school when I got the call.
I never got those sorts of calls to be pulled from class. I wasn't a gifted student, nor was I a delinquent or trouble maker. I was wallpaper, window dressing. I just existed.
Two teachers I didn't recognize, along with the principal and a counselor sat me down in a plain, windowless room at a wooden table. They explained to me what had happened, and I immediately began to panic and cry. I loved my Mom, she was the only family I had after all. The counselor had tried to coax me out of it, and the teachers and principal were doing their best to be supportive. The worst was the principal. He looked annoyed at having to comfort a child on the brink of adulthood crying about his injured mother. I was really just angry, as all teenagers are. I wanted to hit something or break something but there was no doing that here with three fully grown human beings feigning sympathy.
The teachers were at least kind enough to excuse me from classes and give me a ride to the hospital that same morning. I sat with my Mom the rest of the day, holding her hand while she slept. I couldn't imagine the pain she was in, how scared she must've been. She was the strongest person I knew, and she was lying in front of me broken and hurting. I cried for hours, just hoping she would be okay. My stomach rumbled, but I didn't have any cash for the vending machines. Occasionally, a nurse would stop by, check her clipboard and make sure she was comfortable before moving on. Even when I began to ache from that uncomfortable hospital chair I didn't leave her side that first night, but when visiting hours were over, I told her I'd be back tomorrow.
The walk home was terrible. I didn't have a bus pass and I didn't have any cash or coins for the fare, so I had to hoof it. I only had my hoodie to keep the rain off, and the hospital was far enough away from the apartment that halfway through the journey I was soaked through. I remember not hating the feeling of water soaking through my clothes. It was cold, freezing really. But the sensation of being wet, of the downpour of rain hitting me, I could never forget that. I watched an empty soda can roll and get stuck in a storm drain and all I could think was that I wanted to be washed away too.
Our apartment building was old, but I'd called it home for almost nine years. It had been built a long time ago, and some walls of the apartments were solid red brick. At one point it may have been a dentist's office or something but I couldn't remember. We were up on the third floor, and there was no elevator, making grocery trips a bit of a nightmare. Cell service was also spotty in the building as well.
Stepping into the apartment, flicking the lights on and finding it empty, it felt wrong. My Mom should've been home, kicking her feet up and relaxing. But it was just me in this place, alone. Knowing full well she wouldn't just be walking through the door at some point. I wanted to be anywhere else but this was all I had.
I peel off my wet clothes and find a plastic bag to put them in until I can do laundry. I take a shower, sitting in the tub and hugging my knees until the water begins to run cold again. I put on a tshirt riddled with holes and black wasn't much in the fridge, so I ate a dinner of instant noodles. It wasn't the first time, or the last, but it was cheap and filling even if it was loaded with salt and held next to no nutritional value.
Sleeping is a lot easier than I would've thought, and I wake to the alarm on my phone going off the next morning. It's cold in the apartment and I put on a pair of socks and a thin zip up hoodie before walking into the living room. My Mom would've been sitting there right now, eating the same thing for breakfast that she always did, toast and black tea. Sometimes she watched TV or had a cigarette, but these were different circumstances. I fix myself breakfast with the last two eggs in the fridge and two slices of toast before running out the door. I didn't want to go, but more trouble would find me if I skipped school without reason or warning. My Mom was already in pain, I wasn't about to make it worse.
Classes were a blur that day. Teachers scowl at me when I don't have my homework but the thing that I couldn't stand was the staring. Dozens and dozens of eyes fixed on me, hushed whispers that I can't make out. But not one word is said directly to me. Nothing nasty as teenagers often do and nothing out of sympathy either. Once, a girl I don't know begins to approach me before she turns on her heel and runs off. I eat the free lunch I qualify for in the cafeteria, the only other meal I'll have that day. The afternoon goes by in a haze of nameless faces passing me in the hall and teachers that don't know or don't care. When your job is running a factory for making cookies, you don't worry about a single one of them breaking. You simply run the machine and ship them out. I remember that feeling eating me inside, so desperately wanting to hear a kind word or gesture, to feel a single iota of empathy when it felt like the world was crashing down on me.
I left school in a hurry, the rain letting up just long enough to make the walk to the hospital. The woman at the front desk has a pleasant demeanor and tells me exactly how to get to my Mom's room, even though I'd been there before. I couldn't remember how to get to it and hospitals were always intimidating to navigate for me. When I find her room, she's surprisingly awake. Her dark hair is a mess, and I can see the pain and worry that are exacting their toll on her, the lines that are beginning to deepen in her face. There's palpable relief when she sees me, but I was just so glad she was awake. The guard rails of the bed are down, allowing me to stoop down and hug her and she returns it with her one good arm, her left having been broken in the crash.
She pushes the hair out of my face and asks how I'm doing, and I say I'm alright. With a smirk, she calls me a liar, seeing right through the bullshit of my teenage bravado.
She points to the tray of food nearby, and says there's plenty there for me. There's half a slice of gray meatloaf, bread and some cherry gelatin. I don't want it, I'm not hungry, I'll eat later I tell her. I'm just happy she's alright.
She points to a plastic bag in the corner and asks me to grab her wallet from it. There's clothes, a pack of cigarettes they won't let her smoke in here, her keys. Her phone hadn't survived the crash. She pulls a wad of bills from her wallet, along with her bank card, and her expression turns serious. She gives me instructions, papers and forms and information to grab from home that I make notes of in my phone. There's money for groceries but also to get her a new phone. She trusts me to pick something that isn't hideous or expensive. She has to rely on me for this, we don't have anyone else. I tell her, promise her that I can do it. She teases me, tells me not to spend all of the money on pizza. I ask her if she wants something from the vending machines, she says she's only allowed to eat when they tell her.
I spent the next few hours there with her. The TV plays bad movies and television shows and there are only six channels in a shoddy resolution. We talk of small things, school, her job, my plans for after graduation. That last one is a bit of a sore spot. My plans hadn't been ironed out and I knew what I wanted to do and what I should do were two entirely different things. She knows about my dreams for the future, but she's also not naive to our situation, to the reality that we live in. Halfway through Iron Law 3: Revolution, a trainwreck of a movie about a vigilante Bisharp that follows his own brand of justice, my stomach begins to growl. She says it's fine, that I can go home and get some rest. I give my Mom another hug before I leave.
A water main break forces me to take another path to get home, the street crammed with repairmen and their trucks. The rain has come back in a light drizzle, and I pass a man with an umbrella walking with his Poliwhirl. The Water Type must've been loving the last few days of rainfall. I pass a diner I've never stopped into before, a fairly new place called Clancy's. It's small, but there's a lot of people in for their dinner rush. I wonder if their food is any good before making my way back home. As I'm climbing the stairs to the apartment, my phone goes off.
It's a text message from Hector.
"Hey man, I heard about what happened. Are you gonna be ok to travel this year?"
No, I wanted to say. I wasn't going to be able to travel. A Pokemon journey was for someone with chances, talent, someone who won the parental lottery or got lucky. I wasn't that. I was nobody.
Hector and I had been planning on taking our Trainer journey's the following year. Most left at fifteen, but we were doing ours a year late and there was nothing in the rules that said we couldn't. He was the only friend I had, the only person I knew that was as emphatic about taking this journey as I was. He was a true friend, someone who never held my lack of anything above me. His companion Pokemon, an incredibly well-trained and obedient Growlithe, was going to be his starter. I didn't have the means to get one myself and I couldn't bring myself to ask him for help. I left his text message unanswered.
I collected everything from the old brown desk and filing cabinet that Mom kept in the corner. Being on her own and in charge of everything, she was incredibly well-organized. I found the numbers she was looking for, a copy of her insurance card and all of the relevant documents she'd asked for. I make myself another "budget dinner", which is really just canned soup and the last of the bread. I try in vain to complete the homework I was assigned. I stumble through literature and natural science easily enough but grow easily frustrated when calculus rears its ugly head. I scribble answers in where I think they might be correct. I didn't want to think about this shit right now.
The next day is Saturday, and I wake up earlier than I would've liked. That is to say, I wake up at the time I'd be leaving for school but sleep is a foregone conclusion at that point. I laze around in bed for half an hour before deciding to meet the day. As I pull on socks and shoes, the sound of distant thunder rumbles outside. The rain still has not let up. I grab a few of Mom's things for her before I leave. She'd asked for a few books that she hasn't had the time for, and while I'm happy she can read them now, it makes me sad that it took her getting hurt for it to happen.
My first stop is getting my Mom a new phone. The store is way brighter than I expected, and it smells vaguely of someone's lunch but I can't place the scent, I just know that I don't want to be there any longer than I have to. It takes a little over an hour, and the thin man with the glasses has to grab the relevant information, contact his supervisor at least four times and verify more than once that yes, I am in fact a person on this account. A few customers glare at me, the kid with his hood drawn that isn't saying anything. Another woman with puffy cheeks and purple lipstick stares at me from behind the counter before another customer asks for her help. I picked something decent enough for my Mom, something close enough to what she had. It helps that it's refurbished and at a lower price than I expected.
I stopped by the hospital next, knowing full well that two days of bad TV was probably driving my Mom nuts. She wouldn't be moving yet though, and she likely would have to go in for surgery again soon. They said she was lucky, that the damage could've been so much worse. I sit there with her for a while. She's cracked open one of her novels and I'm trying to feign interest in a long canceled sitcom where an absolute fool of a man blames his wife for all of his shortcomings. Someone from a different time probably finds this to be the height of comedy. I find it to be drivel from a bygone era. At least the remote has a mute button.
A few pages in, and she asks me if I've talked to Hector recently. As my only friend, she makes it a point to ask about him. I tell her that he's texted me, but I haven't answered him.
She closes her book and tells me that's rude, that my friend was probably showing concern about me. I tell her that's not it, and that's not what he wanted to talk about. She asks what he wanted to talk about then. I can't bring myself to say it, so I show her the text instead.
There's silence in the room for a long period of time. Both of us want to speak, but the words need to be careful. This is old ground. We've had this conversation before, we know where it will go.
My mother says she's sorry. She has tears in her eyes. She's in so much pain and I've made it worse. I should have, could have, lied to her and spared her this. It's not pain of the body, but guilt. And that guilt is eating at me too for having brought it up in the first place. I wanted so badly to be a Trainer, to take a journey with Hector, like all of the other kids my age. They were set to run, and I hadn't even arrived at the track. I didn't have the money, the talent or even a Pokemon to start my journey with, not even the family Herdier.
I tell her it's fine, that it's not her fault. She apologizes again and again, tells me that she wishes she could do better for me, for both of us. I tell her that it's okay, that I'm just glad she's alive. I put on my bravest face, I tell her there's probably more to life than Pokemon training anyway, that I could use this time to focus on school and getting into college, and finding a good job. My Mom bites her lip, tears running down her face. She realizes that I'm making concessions on my ambition, giving up on my dream, consigning myself to an ordinary life that I never wanted. She knows better, knows her son too well, to know that I wasn't okay with it but I just had to be.
I read a fantasy novel a year prior with an epilogue from the author. She acknowledged the fate of a fan-favorite character and how many readers were upset with the end of his story. She reminded us, the audience, that destinies are sometimes small and that's how life works. That character put down his sword and chose a smaller, peaceful life instead. I was beginning to realize that she was right, as much as I wanted to believe otherwise.
I hug my Mom one last time before I leave. She tells me she's sorry once again, and I do my best to tell her that it's ok.
I passed that same cafe, Clancy's, during an afternoon lull. The lunch rush had finished a few hours ago and there was still time before dinner. A few customers sit in the booths, an old man and his wife, there's a father with a baby and a little girl hanging off of him. I sit at the counter, knowing full well that the money spent here could feed me for several days if not a week. The waitress, a hawk-nosed woman with graying hair and a terrific sense of humor takes my order before flying back to the kitchen, where it sounds like chaos is erupting. A burger with cheese oozing off of the side and a plate spilling over with fries is sat in front of me. It's one of the best things I've eaten, and I couldn't even finish it. The waitress asks me if I'm thinking of dessert, and the thought of more food makes me want to hurl. I pay the bill and leave a generous tip, as Mom had always insisted. Before I stand up though, I ask the waitress if they're short-staffed. She replies that yes, they are, they need someone to wash dishes and do prep work. I met the cooks and the owner, who admired my work ethic and hired me on the spot. My first day was Sunday, but I would come back later that evening for training.
The thought had been wriggling in my head since Hector had texted me. It wasn't feasible for Mom to provide for me on a Trainer journey, but I could do it myself. It wouldn't be an ideal start, but then again, I wasn't working with ideal circumstances. If I scraped together the money, I could probably afford the supplies and gear myself if I started saving now. That left me trying to find a Pokemon but there were options. I could ask another Trainer to take me out into the wild and help me catch one, but I'd be left with whatever we could find, likely a Bidoof or Starly, maybe a Shinx if I was lucky. I would also have to hope that Trainer actually agreed to it instead of just laughing at me and denying me on the spot. There was the RTS, or Regional Trade System, that had been recently adopted by Sinnoh from the Hoenn region to the south. Activists for Pokemon rights had gotten into a frenzy when it was being implemented, but they ultimately weren't able to stop it. You could trade with someone from any Pokemon Center in the region. However, a stop gap was implemented to keep the RTS from being abused. You had to have at least one badge, so that plan was dead in the water. I considered adopting a rescue Pokemon. In the last few years there had been an initiative to rehome and rehabilitate Pokemon that have been abandoned or abused by Trainers. They were located in most of the major cities but they were most common in cities that had their own Gym. Jubilife didn't have a Gym, but being one of the largest cities in Sinnoh meant that its headquarters were located here. I considered the implications of adopting a Pokemon just to make it fight. Some had already been hurt or left behind already, would I really be helping them by forcing them to battle?
Lastly, I considered the stupidest and most dangerous option: catching a wild Pokemon on my own. I'd be putting my own body and life on the line to catch some rodent or bird while it fought tooth and nail to hurt me and escape, then I'd have to let it out of the ball and convince it to fight for me. I'd heard the stories about Trainers tangling with Pokemon that they or their team weren't prepared for. If they were lucky, they got away with scrapes or scratches, maybe a bite or two. But some of them lost fingers or eyes, faced dismemberment or a gruesome death in the most extreme circumstances.
I decided I'd cross that bridge when the spring thaw rolled in. The lead up into winter wasn't the ideal time to be leaving Jubilife on a life-risking mission to catch a Bidoof.
I went to a grocery store nearby that I knew Mom went to. I had no idea what I was buying but I had the money she'd given me. Before I started picking items up though, I suddenly made the connection that we might not have any money coming in for awhile. I had no idea what Mom's savings looked like either, so I might need to make this last. Nervously, I paced the aisles without grabbing anything, just trying to figure out what could feed me for the lowest cost. I felt so stupid for eating in that diner and wasting her hard-earned money. I bought a bag of rice, some bread, cheese and eggs. I threw in some canned foods I knew I'd like along with pasta and some milk. I was trying to keep a running total in my head until the cans got into the mix and I was off by a little bit when the cashier rang me up.
As I climbed the steps to the apartment, one of the bags snapped in my hands and half a dozen cans dropped to the ground. I scrambled like a maniac to retrieve them, gripping them close to me with one arm as I tried desperately to fish my keys out of my pocket. I was an idiot and it wasn't the first time I would forget to double bag.
So I started my first job that Sunday, the busiest day for Clancy's, as it was the only day of the week they served breakfast but I guess it was popular with the people that knew of it. The pay wasn't great, but the kitchen staff were nice enough and I got a free meal off the menu each shift. The woman who'd served my food the previous day was happy to see me. I learned that her name was Tabitha, and she had a son that was a few years older than me. It was messy work, the front of my clothes cold and wet by the end of the shift, which was 7 AM to 2 PM. I was tired, my feet hurt and I didn't smell too great either but I learned to mop a floor, peel vegetables and how to bus tables. The owner knew I was still in school, so he only scheduled me for evening shifts, which was fine with me. It still left me with time for schoolwork and chores.
After that first day, I went to visit my Mom. I told her about my first day working at the diner while she set up her new phone. Apparently she had a lot of calls and arrangements to make, insurance companies to deal with, not to mention explaining what had happened to her employer. She was skeptical of me taking on my first job, but said she was fine with it as long as it didn't interfere with my grades. I told her it wouldn't. From what the doctors had said, it was going to take quite a long time for my Mom to fully recover. There was her broken left arm, which was her dominant hand, not to mention injuries to her back and legs which would take physical therapy to get her up and walking again. She assured me it was fine though, that she had insurance for this very reason and that she wasn't at fault for the accident anyway. Her old car, the sedan, had been totaled and it wasn't going to be missed.
Over the next week, I would either pick up shifts at the diner or visit Mom. Her mood seemed to be lifting with each day, but she seemed to be growing restless. My mother had never been the type of person to sit still and sitting in a hospital bed with next to nothing to occupy her but books and bad daytime television was probably making her grow restless.
It all began to crash down Friday.
Stopping in on that day, I was expecting my mother to be in better spirits. She was supposed to be getting out of here today and she would be able to stay at home healing and resting while doing physical therapy.
She was despondent and trying not to fall apart. Conversations with her employers, in addition to the local police and the insurance companies had all ended in disaster. Her job would only pay out the meager vacation and sick time she had accrued, which totaled two weeks. However, if she couldn't return to work after a further two weeks, they'd be forced to let her go. The police had been forced to transport her vehicle to a local impound, but she'd be charged for each day that it remained there. Her insurance was trying to reach out to find the other driver in the accident, but even the police couldn't get ahold of him. Apparently he'd gone radio silent and no one had been able to find him. It was like he'd vanished. As it stood now, there was no getting anything out of him. The payout from her insurance would cover some of the medical bills, but multiple surgeries and almost a week in the hospital still left a sizable amount of debt, and that was before the cost of physical therapy was factored in. The pressure was mounting and my mother was doing her level best not to crumple underneath it.
The overhead lights of Lucky Andy's are blinding me as I come to, a soft ringing noise plays in my ears. Two figures wreathed in light hover over. I hold out a hand in front of me to block out the light, and I feel the pain of several fresh bruises stir to life along my arm and the rest of my body. The details of the figures come into relief. The first, a clean shaven man with red hair wears the uniform of an emergency responder, he's prodding me and I swear I can hear him say something. The other is much more familiar, Glen, the owner of the bar and my employer. He's dressed in a faded blue bathrobe that looks ridiculous on him, the last tufts of hair on his head clashing with the impressive graying beard he sports. I watch him look me in the eye and begin shouting before I feel his rough hands beginning to shake me. The paramedic has to stop what he's doing to tell the old man to knock it off.
"...awake ok, see? The kid's fine, leave 'em alone and get the fuck outta my bar," Glen barks.
"Sir, he may be concussed and we can't rule out internal injuries yet either," the man responds with a tone that suggests that he's had this conversation a thousand times. "The police will need to speak with him as well."
Glen grumbles and growls something about doctors, but he can't come up with an argument for that. I turn my head away from the lights only to realize that the bar is in shambles and the broken glass of several windows litters the floor. Several bottles are missing from the shelf and I can spot many of the tables that are overturned and chairs that are broken. It's only as I'm taking in the damage around me that I realize how cold I am. The wind is howling through broken windows. There's a scant few flakes of snow that are carried in on the frigid breeze and I begin to shiver. Another paramedic begins to sit me up and the pain of several fresh bruises flare to life. She wraps me in a blanket before she coaxes me to stand up. With steady hands, she leads me to one of the booths under an unbroken window.
She asks several questions, and my head is a muddled mess but I do my best to answer. Where did I live, what was my name, basic stuff at first before she seemed satisfied. As she walks away, I pull the blanket tight around my body to keep the cold out. An officer of the Jubilife Police Department steps in to ask more questions.
Had I been drinking tonight? No.
Do you know who did this? No, they were customers I'd never seen before.
Any involvement with any form of organized crime? No.
It went on like that for a while, answering questions as I sat there freezing. I described the men to the best of my ability but I'd only seen them for a few minutes before it all went down. I asked them who found me, and the officer told me that someone made the call after hearing glass break and watching the men leave the bar and take off down the street in a hurry. They had wished to remain anonymous, but I was grateful that they had the courage to do something like that.
The paramedics eventually took me to a nearby clinic to be looked at further while they continued their route. At least the place was clean and warm. The doctor, a tired looking man in his fifties with a goatee, had a few more tests to run, but he was straightforward and honest. After nearly an hour spent in the same room with doctors and nurses coming in and out to check on me, they let me go, ruling out concussion and stating that if I had any discomfort that I was to take basic pain relievers at the recommended dose. I couldn't remember if we actually had any at home. My legs still felt shaky, my body ached all over and my head was throbbing. Walking out into the lobby, I saw Glen wrapped in his bathrobe. He even had slippers to match. Sitting next to him with wide, panicked eyes was my mother, looking scared to death. She was dressed in a winter coat and sweatpants, but it was still a step up from how my employer was dressed. He must've called her after they took me to the clinic. I couldn't join them right away, as I had to verify my information with the nurse at the counter. They needed an address and a phone number, and my heart began to sink when I realized they were going to be sending me a bill for all of this. I couldn't fathom the number, I knew health care was ludicrously expensive, far more than it had any right to be. For Pokemon, that wasn't the case, as medical science had advanced to the point where hands, limbs and even eyes could be regenerated with enough time. For humans, we were still just as fragile and vulnerable, as if this past night hadn't been enough to convince me. With a lump in my throat, I gave the nurse all of my information, and she told me to get some rest.
As I walked over, my mother approached to wrap me in a tight hug and I could feel her beginning to choke up and sob. She pulled away to look at my face, one hand on my cheek as her eyes noticed the bruises and scratches covering me. Tears ran down her tired face, but I could see the relief and tension leaving her now.
"Thank Arceus you're okay, my baby boy…" she whispered.
"I'm alright Mom, really," I tried to assure her.
"C'mon, s'get outta here. Never liked doctors or their houses a' horrors," Glen grumbled.
We stepped out into the blustering freezing wind of Jubilife that cut right through the long-sleeved shirt I was wearing. The heat from the clinic vanished in a moment as I realized I didn't have a coat when they brought me here. I stuck my hands into my armpits, which I knew looked ridiculous but it also kept them warm. Around us, tall buildings with dark windows loomed over the streets bathed in the orange glow cast by the street lights nearby. My Mom thanked Glen profusely before she began to lead me down the street.
"We'll just take the bus, it'll be easier that way," my Mom told him but the old man wasn't backing down.
"Titus already got a shit kickin' tonight," my Mom winced at his phrasing and colorful language. "I don't want neither of you getting mugged on top of that. The truck's got heat and it'll be faster anyway," he told her. She was tired and in no mood to have this argument. Glen meant well, even if his demeanor said otherwise.
Glen's truck was a faded orange, old and weathered but sturdy. It only had a bench seat, and the interior had never been replaced, so it was a tight fit. At least the small cab of the vehicle warmed up quickly as the old man cranked the heat. The truck rumbled and groaned as we pulled away from the clinic. For several minutes, the only sounds were the rumble of the truck and the slight squeal of the brakes, only interrupted by us giving him directions. Finally, Glen coughed and spoke up.
"Bar's gonna be closed down for a bit, Titus. Repairs and such," he stated.
"What about my job?"
"You still got it, but you gotta rest and let this blow over for a bit. Besides, those shitheads are like Sharpedo. Once they know Lucky Andy's is easy pickins, they'll be back again. They took the tip jar, plus everything in the till and smashed that to hell. Nah, better just board it up and close it down while things're slow," the old man grumbled.
Shit. Losing out on four days a week of work and the tips that came with it was a gut punch. The winter holidays had already passed, so I doubt the warehouse could offer me any more hours, and Jaffa Mart was kind of notorious for not giving its employees enough hours to get by. Still, it was the first weekend I'd had free in a long time. I just wish I didn't have to get beat down and lose out on a paycheck to get it.
My Mom put a comforting hand on my shoulder. "It's okay, we'll figure it out," she whispered.
Mom couldn't move around as well as she did before the accident. Physical therapy had helped but it could only do so much, and being on her feet for too long was exhausting and painful for her. For a long time, it was hard for her to find any work at all. Eventually, she lucked out and found a job working in an office. The pay was downright miserable, they didn't offer benefits of any kind and most employees were a bad report away from getting fired on the spot. But it was the only job that offered her what she needed. She hated it, but there was no other option.
Eventually, the truck rolled to a stop in front of our apartment building. We thanked Glen for the ride home, and he told me to get some rest. Our apartment was cold, but as I kicked off my shoes, my Mom wrapped a crocheted blanket around me that she'd made herself. This one featured shades of gray and blue. A pot on the stove held the cooled leftovers of a stew she'd made for dinner. I put some in a smaller sauce pot to warm up on a separate burner. In a few minutes, it was warmed through entirely, and I took a bowl of it to eat in the living room.
This place, our home, was full of odds and ends. Pieces of furniture that were old and didn't match. The sky blue couch that held two slabs of plywood beneath the cushions was uncomfortable after sitting on it for a while and that was on top of the fact that it was old and stained. We had to flip the cushions once we got it, the undersides were rife with burned holes from cigarettes. The ancient coffee table had apparently come all the way from Galar, but it was in rather poor condition when we'd gotten ahold of it. There were chips and scratches and dents covering it, and even feature a large burned indent from the previous owner that appeared to come from setting a burning pan or pot down on it. The table was sturdy though, standing on wrought iron legs that were intricately designed. There was a recliner in a horrific shade of yellow that didn't have a handle and the end table had a leg that was too short. One of the few things that we owned that my mother loved was an alarm clock that sat on the TV stand. It was made of brass but the face of it featured several cute Pokemon, Pikachu, Togepi, Cleffa and others. I wasn't even sure if it worked, but Mom adored it all the same.
The stew was excellent, much like everything she made. Early on she had explained to me that because we didn't have a lot of money, learning to cook was important for us. She had me cook certain meals, try different things and find out what I liked. When she was allowed to leave home from the hospital, it became vital for me to be cooking our meals and I was lucky to have her guidance. Every now and then, she'd find a recipe online or out of a cookbook that we could try and if we didn't like it, she'd show me how to change it up and make it better. I was confident around a stove now, but it took burning and overseasoning more than a few meals to get where I was at.
As I was finishing my dinner, Mom sat down next to me with something in her hands. It looked like a pamphlet or brochure or something. She had a flat smile, like there was guilt in there but she was trying to be brave about it.
"I was saving this until you got home tonight, but I figured you needed it," she explained, holding out the pamphlet to me. "I know it's not the same, that it's not exactly what you wanted but maybe you could give it a try."
In bold letters across the top were the words Sinnoh League Rehome Project: Volunteer Program.
I'd heard of the Rehome Project before. It had started in Floaroma several years ago with a group of people taking in abandoned Pokemon left behind by their Trainers. The movement soon spread to other cities where it was even more necessary and in just two years every city in the region had a Rehome Project location. Their goal was to treat and care for Pokemon that had been left behind or even abused in some cases. On rare occasions, they released a few of them back into the wild. Surrendering or leaving a Pokemon behind wasn't always out of malice though. Many new Trainers were teenagers that were ill-equipped to be able to handle a dangerous creature, let alone several on top of the stress of being a Trainer and a teenager. The pressure caused them to lash out or hurt the Pokemon that were supposed to be their partners. However, there were other cases where Trainers simply weren't capable of taking care of them. I'd heard a story about someone surrendering his starter, a Munchlax, to them because he couldn't feed him enough and he didn't want the poor creature to starve. Rather than leaving the Pokemon behind, the Rehome Project willingly took him in and was able to help him.
"It's not training, it's not the journey or the sights or the battling but…" my mother's voice trailed off. "You'd get to work with Pokemon. And enough volunteer hours will earn you college credits and they'll recommend you to other League programs. You could become a Ranger if you really wanted to!"
Fanning open the brochure, I skimmed through the information. They needed volunteers in every area. Some would feed the Pokemon, play with them and be there to get them more used to humans. Others would work in the sanitation department. I almost balked at the idea right there. It was hard to justify volunteering time that I didn't have to mopping floors and cleaning up Rattata droppings.
But my Mom looked so sure of the idea, that this would be good for me. I didn't want to dash her hopes or make her feel bad. She was doing her absolute best to support me, and she'd done a kind thing to help me. I could, would, try this just once or twice and decide if it was for me. If it didn't stick, if I truly hated it, then it wasn't meant to be.