He opens the door, his eyebrows raised. “Chet?”
“Good day, Benny. I was hoping I could make use of your hospitalities for the evening. Perhaps even two or three. Would you be amenable to serving as my host?”
“What the hell?” Benny cocks his head.
Like Father said. Speak in plainer English.
“Can I…spend the night?”
Benny rubs at the back of his neck. “Jesus, Chet. We haven’t spoken in years.”
“But you’re my best friend.”
He laughs at that. “How on earth can you think I’m your best friend? I treated you like shit in elementary and middle school.”
“You were teasing. That’s what friends do. That’s what Mother always told me.”
“For Christ’s sake, Jer—I mean Chet. Will you ever get a clue?”
He closes the door in my face.
I guess he’s busy tonight.
No matter.
I sometimes see people sleeping in the green area by the airport. Some of them even have tents. I’ve always been fascinated by the notion of camping. The reserve is not far from where Benny lives. I walk over there just as the sun is setting and take a seat on a nearby bench.
This is lovely. Cool night air. A blanket of stars above me, and the roaring thunder of planes taking off nearby.
It doesn’t get much better than this.
A man with stringy hair with aluminum cans lining his arms and a crown of tinfoil passes by me, giving me a strange look. “First night here?”
“Indeed, sir,” I say. “May I ask why you are bedecked in metal?”
“Why what?” He looks at his arms. “Oh, yeah. The cans. It keeps them out.”
“Them?”
“The CIA. NSA. Illuminati. Lizard people. Whatever the hell you want to call them. They’re listening, and these”—he bangs on the metal can on his left arm—“are the only way to scramble their signal.”
I widen my eyes. “Fascinating.”
“Yeah, you wouldn’t believe what those bigwigs can get up to.” The man scratches at the side of his face, and his eyelids twitch. “It’s going to rain, I think.”
I look up. “Heavens, I didn’t plan for precipitation.”
“Here.” He gestures me over. “I have a tent. There’s room enough for two. Come on, you can crash with me. I’ll get you some cans, too. Keep you safe from listening ears.”
“I’d certainly like that.” I extend my arm. “My name is Chester Tabbitt. Chet for short.”
He shakes my hand, not meeting my eyes. “I’m Tim. Timothy Mann.”
It has been grand getting to become friends with Tim. He’s unlike my other friends. They laughed at me, pointed fingers, said unkind things. Tim doesn’t do that. When he laughs, I’m laughing with him. And he’s never said anything unkind to me in the months since we met.
I’ve procured my own tent now, which I’ve mounted next to Tim’s. I’ve gotten to know him well. He ended up here because he fell desperately in love with a woman who did not return his affections. He spent every last dollar he had on her to appease her, but she spurned every fine piece of jewelry, every lavish fur. He turned to alcoholic beverages and other illicit substances to numb the pain she left in her wake. Eventually he lost his house, his car, all his belongings, and still the woman wanted nothing to do with him.
He tells me she stole his heart, that there now exists only a chasmic void in the space behind his ribs. Of course, I know this to be a biological impossibility, but he insists it is the case.
