The Lonely Living
Authors: Sean McMurray
THE
LONELY LIVING
By
Sean
McMurray
Text copyright 2013 Sean McMurray
This book is dedicated to you,
Reader.
The bombing of Pearl Harbor, the
assassination of JFK, 9/11, they were more than just days in a history book or
dates in a calendar, they were days of such significance that our world seemed
to change in an instant. It seems every generation had one of these moments forcibly
etched into their consciousness. They start with clichéd phrases like “I
remember when” or “I was doing so and so when”, but by the time the story ends
everybody is listening. Those moments forced us to stop what we were doing and
stare. Like a train wreck, they demanded our attention and we succumbed to
that demand not because we wanted to, but because we had to. With wide eyes we
were compelled by the invisible will of history to absorb every ounce of those
moments and once we’d done so, they became a part of us. As long as we have
breath they will always exist. The thing about those kinds of moments is that
no one was ever quite prepared for them, so it’s how we responded that made the
difference. My generation’s moment, well, it went something like this…
1
I was asleep on my stomach, my head
deep into my pillow, still wearing the jeans and hoody I wore to school the day
before, when my dad came into my room.
“Blake,” he said as he shook me by
the shoulder, “wake up, Blake.”
I opened my eyes slowly and my
father’s blurry form came into focus. He was calm, but there was a specific
urgency simmering below the surface. I knew immediately something was wrong.
My father never got rattled. The whole town could be on fire with frantic
people running in all directions losing their minds and amongst the panic would
be my father, fully composed, calmly asking for help with the water hose.
That quality helped make him one of the best quarterbacks in Minnesota’s
history and later a stellar officer in the Marine Corps. He never collapsed
under the weight of the moment. But there he was, speaking tersely.
“Get up and get dressed.” He
ordered. “You’re going to the lake house.”
I sprung to a seated position on
the bed. “What?” I asked, rubbing my eyes.
“You’re going to the lake house.
You need to leave now.”
“But-”
Suddenly, a fleet of police cars
came screeching down the road by our house, sirens blaring. My dad sprang to
my bedroom window and peered through the blinds.
“I’ll go wake up your sister.
While I’m getting her ready I need you to do something.” He turned abruptly
from the blinds. “In the closet downstairs, sitting on the very top shelf is a
metal lock box. Bring it to me.”
I froze for just a second,
dumbfounded by the situation.
“Blake,” My father said sternly, “go!”
Springing from my trance, I hastily
slipped on my shoes and tumbled down the stairs. It was hard to see, so I
reached for the light switch once I reached the bottom. I flipped the switch
but nothing came on.
I was perplexed. “Power’s out?”
I felt my way through the living
room to the closet door. I turned the knob and opened it, and then reached my
hands up on the shelf. I ran my fingers across the wooden shelf until I
touched the smooth, cool metal of the box my father had sent me to retrieve. As
soon as I touched it I thought of her, my mother. Inside that metal box were
pictures of her. I remembered my father, teary eyed, putting them in there
after she left us. But I wondered, “Why does he want them now?”
Nevertheless I grabbed the box and met
my father at the bottom of the stairs. He was balancing my sister in one arm,
who was draped across his shoulders struggling to keep her soft blue eyes open,
and an electric lantern in the other. My father set the lantern down on the
coffee table before gently resting my sister on the couch. He squatted down to
slip on her shoes.
“The combination to the box is
8-30-8.” He said over his shoulder. “Open it for me.”
I put in the combination and it
didn’t work. “Dad, are you sure that is the right combination?” I asked.
“Yes.” He said impatiently.
I tried again and this time it
opened. “I got it.”
My father tied my sister’s shoes
and turned back to me. “Hand it to me.” He commanded.
I held the lock box out in front of
me like it was some kind of peace offering and my father snatched it from my
hand and set it down on a nearby lamp stand. He started to reach for something
inside when he suddenly paused and turned to my sister.
“Abbey,” he said calmly, “You need
to get your coat on. Will you do that for me?”
She rubbed her weary eyes and
nodded then hopped off the couch and scurried away, still not fully awake by
her standards. My father resumed his task. He pulled out pictures of my mom,
but to my surprise, thoughtlessly tossed them on the stand next to the box. Then
the hidden nature of this box revealed itself. Within seconds my father
produced a silver revolver not much bigger than his fist.
“Blake, I need you take this with
you.”
“But—”
“—I know what I’ve taught you, but
this is different.”
There were a million things running
through my head. I knew my father knew how to shoot, he was a Marine after
all, but he had sworn off guns like they were some kind of addiction when he
returned from the war.
“Dad, I don’t know how to shoot.”
I admitted, sounding embarrassed.
My father spoke in a harsh
whisper. “You have six shots.” He opened the cylinder, displaying the
bullets. He then extended his arms in front of himself. “When the target is
close, line up the sights, release the safety and pull the trigger.” He handed
me the gun. “Show me.”
I took the gun and just held it for
a few seconds. I had the idea of how to fire a gun. You would’ve been hard
pressed to find a kid in my generation who hadn’t played a first person shooter
video game or watched a violent action movie. But it felt both strange and
surreal to actually hold one in my hands. It was heavier than it looked.
“Show me!” My father repeated.
I did my best to imitate the stance
he had taken. He adjusted my arm and my grip on the pistol then said, “Tell
me the steps.”
“Line up the sights. Umm…release
the safety and then pull the trigger.”
My father nodded approvingly,
“Good, but wait until the target is close. It’s not as easy as it seems on TV.”
My little sister’s voice beamed at us
from across the room. “Is that a gun?” She asked accusingly.
I instinctively hid the gun behind
my back. My father dropped to a knee in front of Abbey.
“Don’t you worry about that,
Abbey.” He slowly zipped up her coat. “I need you to be a good girl for your
brother, okay?”
“You’re not going?” She said with
genuine worry.
“I need to go to the church and
make sure everything is okay, then I will meet you there.” He said
reassuringly.
“Promise?”
He held out his pinky finger.
Abbey hooked her tiny pinky finger
around his and he said, “I promise.”
He pulled her in against his chest
and hugged her tightly and then stood up. He reached into his pocket and
retrieved the keys to his Chevy Cobalt.
He tossed me the keys and said,
“You remember how to get to the lake house?”
I caught them and nodded
apprehensively. “Yes but I—”
Once again he was short with me. “I
know you don’t have your license, but you know how to drive, right?”
I nodded almost shamefully.
He motioned with his arm. “Come
on.”
He picked up my sister, and then
grabbed the lantern. Guided by the soft blue light cast from the lantern, I
followed my father to the garage. He set the lantern on top of the Chevy and
then went to work buckling Abbey into her booster seat.
I stood indecisively behind him.
He saw me standing there out of the corner of his eye.
“Get in.” He snapped.
Without hesitation I did as
directed and climbed into the driver’s seat. I started the car and felt the
engine purr beneath me. My father finished buckling in Abbey.
“Your brother is going to take care
of you, but you need to be a good listener and do what he says.”
She nodded with wide eyes on the
verge of tears, and then said softly, “Remember your promise.”
My father leaned in and kissed her
on the forehead. “I will.”
He closed the door and then came to
my window.
“You have it with you?” He asked.
I patted the front pocket of my
hoody. “Yes.”
“Are you sure you know the way?”
“Yes.” I said, annoyed.
“Don’t forget to give your sister
her shots.”
Suddenly, there was the rap of
distant gun fire outside, causing me to jump off my seat.
“You need to leave.” My father said
anxiously. “Don’t stop driving until you get there. You hear me? No matter what
is happening around you, just drive.”
“Dad, what is going on?” I asked.
“Is it terrorists?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
He ran to the garage door and lifted it up. “Go now!”
I slipped the car into reverse and
backed out the drive way. Abbey kissed her hand and pressed it against the
window as we drove away. I took one last look into the rearview mirror and saw
my father slip a picture of my mother into his pocket.
The streets and houses of the
cul-de-sac where I lived were completely dark. I found it both eerie and
disquieting. I drove slowly with both anxious hands rigid on the wheel as if
at any moment thousands of paratroopers from some foreign country were going to
descend from the sky, or the earth below me was going to rupture and split
spewing lava in every direction. Whatever was going on, I tried to convince
myself I was ready, but in reality, my mind was spinning with the most maniacal
imaginations and all I really wanted was to jump back in bed and burrow under
the covers.
I drove down the darkened road
toward Burbank, a blue-collar town of roughly 20,000 people, nestled
picturesquely against the Red Lake River in a small bowl shaped valley which by
that time in the fall was speckled with orange and red trees. Burbank was my
home and the home of the fighting Monarchs of James E. Davis High School. The
place where my father became a local legend after leading his football team to
the town’s only state championship, the same place where I was nothing more
than a wall flower and a constant question mark in the eyes of everyone who
recognized my famous last name.
As I approached the hill that led
into downtown Burbank, the little bit of light emanating from the valley told
me that at least part of the city still had power and for some reason I found
that comforting. I eased my grip on the wheel and relaxed my breathing. But
as I came to the peak of the hill, I was hit with a heavy dose of smoke, a kind
I’d never encountered before. It wasn’t campfire smoke or chimney smoke, the
best I could compare it to was industrial smoke, the kind that spews profusely
into the atmosphere from towering smoke stacks. It filled the car forcing me
to pull the neck of my hoody over my mouth and nose while sending Abbey into a
coughing fit.
“Cover your mouth and nose like I
am.” I said through my shirt.
Abbey did as directed. “What’s
going on?” She asked.
The Chevy descended nose first down
the hill and I saw that half the town seemed to be on fire and black smoke was
pouring into the air and hovering like a fog above the valley. The red and
blue lights of the plethora of fire trucks and police cars flickered on the
surface of the tranquil river.
“Blake, what’s going on?” Abbey
asked again.
“I…I don’t know,” I answered. “A
fire.”
“Where are all the people?” Abbey
asked. “Do you think they’re still inside?”
“I don’t know Abbey?”
She leaned forward in her seat. “We
should help them.”
“We’re not stopping, let the
firemen handle it.”
“But—”
“— I said no!”
Abbey folded her arms, thrust
herself back against the seat in frustration and mumbled under her breath, “Dad
would help.”
“Well, Dad’s not here.” I snapped.
“So, deal with it.”
I ignored her belligerent glare and
we continued down the hill. I flipped on the radio, hoping that it would
provide some answers as to what was going on, but all we got was static and
dead air. At that moment, I was sure that there had been some kind of
terrorist attack.
“They must’ve used some kind of Electric
Magnetic Pulse to knock out the radio and probably cell phones too
.
” I
wondered aloud. But I had no way to check that. I wasn’t allowed to get a
cell-phone until I turned 16.
Shortly, I had the same question
Abbey did, where were all the people? There was a major fire in the city, you
would think that we would’ve passed some sort of traffic moving away from the
fire, but we didn’t pass a single car. As we reached the bottom of the hill I
found my answer. Just across the bridge a barricade had been set up. I
assumed to keep people from the fire. I drove to the end of the bridge and
stopped. The smoke was thick and it was difficult to see the other side of the
river. A moment later, two silhouettes formed amongst the smoke and approached
us. They were carrying something and as they stepped closer I saw that they
were wearing army fatigues and carrying assault rifles.
“What’s the Army doing here?” I
said to myself. I glanced back at Abbey and saw that she was scared. I tried
to reassure her. “It’s okay, they’re here to help us.”
“It’s not that.” She said
surprisingly. “You don’t have your license.”
I hadn’t even thought about that
and suddenly the two soldiers approaching the car were that much more
menacing. I resigned myself to pretending to be older than I actually was and
hoped that they didn’t ask to see my license.
The two men advanced to the car and
tapped the window. I took a resilient breath and rolled it down. I lowered my
voice, trying my best to hide my quiver. “What’s the…the problem?”
They looked at me like I was a
complete idiot and then one of them said, “We need you to turn around.”
“O-Okay.”
I started to roll up the window
when one of them reach inside the door and stopped me. “Wait.” He asked
suspiciously, “How old are you?”
“Ah…Seventeen.” I answered.
“Let me see your license.” He
ordered.
The image of my mostly empty wallet
sitting on my nightstand flashed on my mind. “I…I...”
“You don’t have a license do you?”
He asked accusingly.
“No. I mean yes I have one.”
He stared at me hard. “Well?”
The other soldier leaned in and
pointed. “What’s in your pocket there?”
My gaze darted down to my pocket
and then straight forward. I had forgotten the gun I had tucked away in my
hoody. Immediately, my heart was threatened to beat out of my chest as I felt
as if I was under the unyielding light of an interrogation room. “Umm…”
The sweat forming on my brow was
about to betray me when the street across the bridge lit up with gunfire. The
soldiers
jerked their bodies into a firing position,
stocks at the shoulders.
The soldier nearest to me spoke
rapidly into his shoulder com. “Command, this is Rodriguez, what the hell is
going on?”
The other end was silent.
“Command! What is your—”
He was interrupted by the monstrous
roar of an 18 wheeler as it plowed headlong through the barricade, its trailer
completely aflame. Abbey screamed and gripped my shoulder. I slammed the car
into reverse and punched the gas pedal. I jerked my head back just in time to
see the back end of the Chevy slam into the base of a large sycamore tree.
“Abbey, are you alright?” I asked.
She pointed forward and yelled,
“Look!”
I snapped my head forward to see
the 18 wheeler careening towards us. “Abbey, get out!” I screamed helplessly.
She had her head down in prayer
while she covered her ears with her hands.
I quickly unbuckled then wrenched
myself around and pulled at her seatbelt. “Help me!” I implored.
She lifted her head and opened her
frightful eyes. I instinctively pulled myself over the seat and covered her
with my body and we braced for our impending doom.
