Chapter 31

31

John answers his phone on the third ring.

- Hello. Olson Construction.

- Um, John?

- Speaking.

- John, this is Richard.

- Ok...Well, Richard, what can I do for you today?

- I'm afraid you're my only hope right now, John. You said to use your phone number if I needed anything. Well, I need shower, John, a hot meal, and maybe a place to stay for a few...

- Oh, yes I remember now. We met outside of the Barnes and Noble. I'm sorry we didn't exchange names soo...

- But it's me, John. We didn't recognize each other immediately after so many years, but it's me Richard...

- So you said.

- It's Richard...Richard Brau...

The pause was like jumping off of a mountain.

- Listen, I don't know what the hell you want from me but Richard's been...

- No, John. It's really me.

- Fuck you, buddy. Richard's been...

- I know it's be a hell of a long time...twenty something years or so.

- Twenty-two to be exact.

- Jesus, twenty-two years? Is that really how long I've been...

- Listen, I would have gladly helped you out, sir, but you seem to have caught me at a...

- John, please. I really need your help.

- I'm not akin to helping liars, sir.

- I...I'm not lying, John. It's really me, Richard.

- You can't be.

- But I am.

- No. You can't be.

- Why not?

- Because Richard died in 1983. And if you think...

My ears go deaf as if a gun has been discharged just behind my lobe. A sickness overwhelms me and I fall to my knees, dropping the receiver and spitting vomit into my mouth. Choking on my tongue I pick up my revolver, pull the trigger, and release three shells into my office clock, stopping both hands on the midnight hour. Slumping down, cowering from the sun, I turn the gun upon myself. I am too tired to cry, too worn out for remorse.

It shouldn't have to end like this, but then again, was there any other way?