Journalist

I got a telephone call a couple of weeks after the crash from some newspaper in southern California. They wanted to do a piece on Gray and on the crash. I told them that I didn’t have a problem with it, but before I could mention that Grayle was somewhat particular, the snappy businesswoman thanked me, informed me that they would have a journalist come out within a week or so, and hung up the telephone with a loud “click.” I never did care much for the westerners. They were always in such a hurry.

I had known Gray for the better part of his whole life. We were both born in Tallapoosa, although Gray had been living here two years longer than I. After high-school, he went straight into his family’s business—Welsh’s Auto Detailing and Pawn Shop. The Welsh’s were born entrepreneurs, alright, and as sad as it may seem, their shop had competition: Fierce competition, as a matter of fact. Competition from none other than, and it sickens me to say it, Proctor’s Pawn and Auto. Yes, it’s true—my family was just as “ignerent” as Gray’s.

As a matter of fact, all of Tallapoosa was as inbred as the Welsh’s, and I mean that in the best possible way. That means, by just living in the same town and having families that were mortal enemies, we were destined to fall in love. Eat your heart out, Romeo. Heck, the first time my dad bent down next to me and pointed a calloused finger at Grayle and said, “You stay away from that there boy, ya’hear? He’s the work o’ the devil!” I knew we would be best friends. Of course with all this history, I knew exactly how he would react.

“What the Hell do you mean some fag reporter is goin’ to come an’—” Grayle winced as he sat up angrily.

“You really need to relax, Gray.” I looked at him and saw past the anger to the fear. He had always been scared of publicity and did his best to remain unknown. Even in Tallapoosa, he remained an enigma to many. “Just answer the journalist’s questions and he will leave you alone.”

“Yeah, he’d better.” Gray laid himself back down, gently. The fracture has nearly healed, but it still hurt him to jerk his neck. “I can’t believe you told him that it was okay. You know I hate those reporters.”

I squeezed his hand lightly, and he squeezed back. “It was a ‘she,’ actually, and she didn’t really give me a chance to explain. You know I wouldn’t do that to you, right?” I looked for validation in his face, and his scowl relaxed into a subtle smile. That was my second most favorite thing about Gray—he was such a sensitive guy. Everyone else thought he was some kind of manly-car-fixin’ man, but he actually hated cars. He hated his family’s whole business, to be honest. He just didn’t have anywhere else to go, other than our hill where we would talk about everything from the dirt to the sky, and now he didn’t even have that. That belonged to the cops.

Rubbing the back of my hand with his soft palm, he replied. “Right.” A smile—a real one this time—spread across his face like a barn fire. “You know I love you, Till.”

I lay down next to him, resting my head right below his shoulder, making sure not to disturb his brace. His breath resounded strongly and rhythmically in his chest, and after he draped his arm around me, I fell victim to the beautiful music of his heart.

The next morning I woke to a different rhythm—the frantic beating of a fist upon the hollow wooden door. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I looked around for Grayle. None of his clothes were strewn about the floor like they usually were, and his living room was alarmingly tidy. The beating on the door got louder and a meager “Hello?” was noticeably muffled by the door. Turning around, I noticed a carefully folded piece of notebook paper sitting on the bedside table. It wore my name on it, almost like a sad badge. My heart sunk deep into my chest.

“Oh Gray...”

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