Page 21 of Missile Tow
If there was a silver lining to the breakup, it was that I started getting back in touch with who I really was. Evan told everyone that I wasn’t a success in my job. He’d said he basically supported us and that I was non-goal-oriented.
Of course, anyone who knew Evan knew he required a partner who was equally amazing as him. By making me out to be subpar, he could easily convince our friends he had to leave me behind. I pitied John if he wasn’t as financially equipped as Evan.
Since our friends abandoned the unworthy half of the relationship, I was free to be whatever—or whoever—I wanted to be. And if that meant rediscovering my true self, a simple boy from simple means, so be it.
Sure, my mother had money now. But growing up, before Dad died, we were straight down the middle of middle-class dwellers. Dad had an absurdly large amount of life insurance thanks to an insurance broker brother, who’d convinced him to insure himself up the wazoo.
As a result, Mom received a couple million bucks when he died. And now she had a condo in Hawaii and a paid-off home in Seattle. Her new husband, an asshole of the largest order, also came with a few dollars, so life was good for her.
When I looked back on Evan and me, I thought he might have thought I’d come into some big bucks one day. Apparently,with my mother only forty-four years of age, he decided he wasn’t going to wait around and see.
So here I was, convinced I wanted something real that didn’t have a label or a price tag. Easy for me to say, but appearances were unlikely to convince others so easily, considering I was humming down the freeway in a seventy-thousand-dollar BMW. But I had changed.
I gauged my successes by how fulfilled I felt. I took measures of friendships, family life, and my job. I was miserable in all three categories; I’d lost all my friends in the breakup, Mom married a redneck conservative, ruining any chance I wanted to create a closer family unit with them, and my job was boring and unrewarding.
I found myself at the beginning all over again. Thankfully, at twenty-four, I hadn’t progressed far on the game board, so going back to Go would be less stressful. I was a renter, an A-team failure of the first order. I had no true friends. Mom was busy doing her thing. Evan had moved on. I only had myself now.
So there I was, thenewme. I wanted organic connections with real people, a real living, and a job I truly enjoyed without the constraints of earning a shit ton of money. I hoped to work for a company that gave back something worthwhile that you didn’t have to pay for.
The job interview in Denver was for a start-up that needed tech experience but wasn’t a tech company. Their goal was to improve the lives of rural Americans, people of modest means, and the overlooked folks who missed out on the tech boom. By modernizing infrastructure in small communities and out-of-the-way towns, folks could catch up and learn how to help themselves before they became part of the forgotten.
This goal would require tech-savvy employees like me, but the end goal was to improve lives for everyone, not just the elites with access to the latest advances. We wouldn’t sell software ormemberships. We sold ideas and a bold plan to elevate dying towns. I liked the idea and wanted to be a part of something special for a change.
The changes would also start with me. I didn’t need expensive gym memberships and private training from over-juiced men. I wanted an address that didn’t sum up how successful or unsuccessful I was. I desired true friends who, like me, wanted to be part of a community. And I desired an equal partner who saw me as a person, not a paystub.
The fact that I hoped he might also be a cowboy, or a country boy, was a personal want for the universe to fulfill for me. Yes, it sounded shallow when I admitted the type of man I desired, but I’d been attracted to those men my entire life, even though I’d lived in the burbs my entire life.
Small-town America had an appeal for me. People from these small communities seemed unfazed by keeping up with the Joneses. Perhaps success to them was measured in family and relationships with the world around them, not the bank accounts of others.
As the miles ticked away on the odometer, I visualized my perfect country boy. I wanted him to be warm and kind. A simple style that came naturally to him. A man who knew how to tame a bull, as well as save a kitty. He’d help the elderly on his street. He’d mow the grass and cook a meal while also working on his truck.
And my dream guy would be strong and handsome. Not designer handsome with the right skin regimen. No way. I’d had that man. I wanted rugged and sweet at the same time. He could be soft as well as manly. A natural man who would cry if his dog died, or cheer for his favorite college team with his bros.
A warning light on the skid control sensor of the X5 woke me from mydesign-a-manfantasy. The outside temperature had dropped to under freezing according to the dash readout as well,and I suddenly realized the road ahead was becoming white as the asphalt gave up its resistance to freezing.
“Shit,” I muttered, slowing down from seventy.
I looked around at all the trees and hills. Everything was white. There were few cars ahead of or behind me on I-90. My trip mileage readout said I had less than fifteen miles to go to Missile. I’d passed St. Regis, a town with a motel, and remembered John had told me his hometown was too small for lodging.
Should I turn around and go back to St. Regis or make my way to Missile and ask about a place to stay? The snow was falling heavily now and really sticking to the highway. I said a silent prayer and hoped I’d make it to town.
CHAPTER ELEVEN: Chip
“Were you whistling?”
I turned around and found Bertie hovering over me. I was on the floor restocking antifreeze in our small automotive section.
“No,” I fibbed. “Probably the wind from the storm outside.”
“Liar,” she quipped. “And that wasJingle Bellsif I’m not mistaken.”
“Wasn’t me.”
I stuck to my lie. I didn’t want Bertie to notice I was doing my best to get into the holiday spirit after my chat with Mr. Jenkins. I’d woken up that morning and made up my mind to get out of my year-long funk. The thought of ending up an old man, and all alone, scared me shitless.
“Whatever,” she replied, waving me off. “About the storm,” she transitioned, motioning outside.
I stood and looked out the huge front window. The drive I’d cleared for gas customers twenty minutes before was white with snow again. At almost four in the afternoon, daylight was running out.
