Post by Michael Smart on Jun 26, 2016 13:47:05 GMT -6
The room is dimly lit, the only source of light a single reading lamp shining the spotlight onto a reading desk. At the desk, scribbling things down onto a legal pad, is Michael Smart. Every few seconds, Michael writes down a few words, pauses to think, then writes another sentence. Michael seems to be in deep concentration, but his concentration is broken when the cell phone on his desk starts ringing.
Few have Michael’s number. Fewer still would willingly call him. Attempts to contact Michael were rare. Michael appears startled by the phone call, his head jolting to look at the phone, rapidly taking the phone to look at the caller ID.
Badger?
Michael’s hand starts shaking, his breaths getting quicker as he stares at his phone. Reluctantly, he answers the phone.
I told you not to call me…
Unless I absolutely have to, I remember. Trust me, I’m callin' for a very good reason. I need your help.
Michael doesn’t respond. His eyes are wide open, his breathing heavy. Lost in thought, Michael is barely listening as Garland talks.
Look, we’re outnumbered by the The Capital Crew. Frankie Cocheese and them, they’ve got the numbers game. We need back-up, and I know that you can deliver.
Unable to maintain his composure for long, Michael puts on a false pretense of apathy and spits out a few, poorly thought-out words.
Why should I care?
As he finishes his sentence, Michael’s eyes turn to his legal pad. Michael knows exactly why he should care. His free hand floats over the legal pad, his index finger resting on a pair of words. “Robert Garland.”
Maybe you shouldn’t, but… I’ve burned a lot of bridges over the years. There aren’t that many people I can turn to, not anymore. I’d like to think that you’re one of the few that I have left. I know that I’m askin' a lot here, but I wouldn’t be doin' this if I didn’t think this was really important.
Garland’s words don’t help Michael’s composure. He opens his mouth to respond, but he chokes up, unable to get any words out. He had so much he could tell Garland, so much he wanted to say, but he couldn’t. He could tell him about his problems, he could tell him about his road to recovery, he could tell him about the ninth step… but Michael wasn’t ready.
It’s been a while…
Michael wasn’t ready to meet Badger, yet he didn’t end the phone call. He could’ve hung up at any time, he could’ve just said no, and yet he kept making excuses. Excuses not to turn down Garland’s request, but excuses to keep listening to his old friend’s voice.
It’s like ridin' a bike. You’ll hop right back on, and it’ll be just like the old times when we used to tag up.
A smile forces its way onto Michael’s face. He takes one last glance at Garland’s name on his legal pad before responding.
You’ll owe me one for this, Badger.
Michael quickly hangs up the phone. His eyes get moist as he attempts to stifle his emotional reaction, though it’s hard to tell whether he’s holding back laughter or crying. Michael grabs his legal pad, a long list of names scribbled down in his handwriting. Michael rifles through the pages, each of them containing another column of names, until he briefly pauses on one page.
Well, this will have to wait.
Michael plops the legal pad back onto the desk. Unlike the other pages, this one only contains two words, written in large, shaky handwriting. A single name.
Few have Michael’s number. Fewer still would willingly call him. Attempts to contact Michael were rare. Michael appears startled by the phone call, his head jolting to look at the phone, rapidly taking the phone to look at the caller ID.
Badger?
Michael’s hand starts shaking, his breaths getting quicker as he stares at his phone. Reluctantly, he answers the phone.
I told you not to call me…
Unless I absolutely have to, I remember. Trust me, I’m callin' for a very good reason. I need your help.
Michael doesn’t respond. His eyes are wide open, his breathing heavy. Lost in thought, Michael is barely listening as Garland talks.
Look, we’re outnumbered by the The Capital Crew. Frankie Cocheese and them, they’ve got the numbers game. We need back-up, and I know that you can deliver.
Unable to maintain his composure for long, Michael puts on a false pretense of apathy and spits out a few, poorly thought-out words.
Why should I care?
As he finishes his sentence, Michael’s eyes turn to his legal pad. Michael knows exactly why he should care. His free hand floats over the legal pad, his index finger resting on a pair of words. “Robert Garland.”
Maybe you shouldn’t, but… I’ve burned a lot of bridges over the years. There aren’t that many people I can turn to, not anymore. I’d like to think that you’re one of the few that I have left. I know that I’m askin' a lot here, but I wouldn’t be doin' this if I didn’t think this was really important.
Garland’s words don’t help Michael’s composure. He opens his mouth to respond, but he chokes up, unable to get any words out. He had so much he could tell Garland, so much he wanted to say, but he couldn’t. He could tell him about his problems, he could tell him about his road to recovery, he could tell him about the ninth step… but Michael wasn’t ready.
It’s been a while…
Michael wasn’t ready to meet Badger, yet he didn’t end the phone call. He could’ve hung up at any time, he could’ve just said no, and yet he kept making excuses. Excuses not to turn down Garland’s request, but excuses to keep listening to his old friend’s voice.
It’s like ridin' a bike. You’ll hop right back on, and it’ll be just like the old times when we used to tag up.
A smile forces its way onto Michael’s face. He takes one last glance at Garland’s name on his legal pad before responding.
You’ll owe me one for this, Badger.
Michael quickly hangs up the phone. His eyes get moist as he attempts to stifle his emotional reaction, though it’s hard to tell whether he’s holding back laughter or crying. Michael grabs his legal pad, a long list of names scribbled down in his handwriting. Michael rifles through the pages, each of them containing another column of names, until he briefly pauses on one page.
Well, this will have to wait.
Michael plops the legal pad back onto the desk. Unlike the other pages, this one only contains two words, written in large, shaky handwriting. A single name.
CHRIS WILLIAMS
