On Sunday evening, after hours of drinking on Poole's porch and feeding the chiminea splint after splint of kindling, Hatchet and his friend got into an argument over Poole's wife. Hatchet wanted to know why, after all these years apart, after all the girlfriends and one night stands, he still considered himself married and obligated to a woman who wanted nothing to do with him. Poole insisted that Hatchet would never understand their relationship. You don't know what I've put that woman through, Hatchet; the past stacks up on people. You don't think I know that? you don't think I understand how it gets hard to breath under all this bullshit we put ourselves through and all the bullshit we put the people we love through? I've done questionable things, man; I've made the sorts of mistakes with her that muddy all those waters; it's not like she can just push all that aside; it's not like I can just push all that aside; you don't understand. Either you love her or you don't, Poole; that's all there is to understand. It's just not that simple, brother; there are things you don't know. Tell me what I don't know. No. Why not? Because I don't have to; that good enough for you? You know it's not. Sorry, that's the way it is. Did you fuck her sister? Just drop it. You fucked her mother? Just drop it. Poole escaped into the house but Hatchet followed.
What about you, Hatchet? it's all cool that you've become a folk hero to certain people in this world—. Oh brother, Poole; folk hero? You've got the whole damned world cheering you on that you got away with this and you just sit here wasting time; I can turn on that television right now and find some talking head, making you the poster boy for all the rebellion in the world. That's not why I did what I did, man. But why did you do it? it hasn't landed you your Phyrne; it hasn't put you on easy street; it hasn't gotten you your daughter back. Whoa, Poole, chill out with that shit; don't turn into a hypocrite on me now. You're the one who has some decisions to make; you just gonna spend the rest of your life out on that prairie, stretching what little you have into oblivion? Hell, no. Hatchet tossed his empty beer in an arch across Poole's living room through the kitchen doorway where it landed in a silver trash can with a clang. I'm gonna finish my business and finally do all that running away I was supposed to do.
Poole gave him a perpending study as Hatchet opened another beer and looked at his watch. Business? you talking about that egg thing? Yep. You haven't been straight with me about this thing have you? Not exactly; but then you've been pretty adamant about wanting to stay out of it. That didn't exactly work though, did it? Poole, I'm about to do something that could blow up in my face. What else is new?
Then Poole saw a coagulating seriousness in Hatchet's expression. I'm gonna stay away from you from here on out, friend, Hatchet told him. What are you going to do? I can't tell you. We've been through a lot for you to just cut me off. You have your secrets; I have mine. Shove it, Marcus; after all I've done for you? Poole, Hatchet's eyes reached out to him and he could feel their calloused grip, I appreciate you more than I've appreciated anyone else in my life; I've never said this to you but I love you, brother. Poole wanted to laugh but the grip muzzled him and he accepted the sincerity of the words and the hue of unpolished stone that had found purchase in Hatchet's face. That's why I'm leaving you out, brother; this is drastic shit and I don't want you involved; I've nearly ruined your life over this and I'm not taking that chance again; besides, Hatchet reached out and touched Poole's shoulder, you need to make some decisions. What do you mean? You know what I mean; we'll be old men before too long and you have people you need to stop dragging around; you need to either pick them up and carry them with you or leave them behind; you have some decisions to make, know what I mean? you can’t leave people in peril.
In Poole's dreams that night, all the years they had known each other, all the adventures, both trivial and significant, played out across the buffed hardwood stage. All the players that had been a part of their story entered the lights and reprised their roles and recited their lines and made their exits. He watched a younger man portray him, going through his blocking and repeating each of his mistakes, reliving each of his triumphs. Jane danced with him and sang with him then donned her dark veil, disappearing in a somber crescendo. His wife, poor and defenseless against the following spotlight, found refuge somehow as all his petty infidelities played out before him, an audience of one in the vast amorphous theater and he felt more lonely than he had ever felt in his entire life. He watched them one by one disappearing into the terminal shadow until at last stood Hatchet, smiling then bowing until the final curtain fell.
However, one last character had yet to make an appearance. Poole sensed her milling somewhere behind the draping maroon, the folds of it waving like cilia. Then she materialized from a open gash in the color, her braided hair and pink cheeks. Though he had spent very little time with her in the eighteen years since her birth, he felt he knew every curve in her face and every wild hair on her head. She had no lines to recite but her need to say something, anything, shown in her trembling eyes.
What about you, Hatchet? it's all cool that you've become a folk hero to certain people in this world—. Oh brother, Poole; folk hero? You've got the whole damned world cheering you on that you got away with this and you just sit here wasting time; I can turn on that television right now and find some talking head, making you the poster boy for all the rebellion in the world. That's not why I did what I did, man. But why did you do it? it hasn't landed you your Phyrne; it hasn't put you on easy street; it hasn't gotten you your daughter back. Whoa, Poole, chill out with that shit; don't turn into a hypocrite on me now. You're the one who has some decisions to make; you just gonna spend the rest of your life out on that prairie, stretching what little you have into oblivion? Hell, no. Hatchet tossed his empty beer in an arch across Poole's living room through the kitchen doorway where it landed in a silver trash can with a clang. I'm gonna finish my business and finally do all that running away I was supposed to do.
Poole gave him a perpending study as Hatchet opened another beer and looked at his watch. Business? you talking about that egg thing? Yep. You haven't been straight with me about this thing have you? Not exactly; but then you've been pretty adamant about wanting to stay out of it. That didn't exactly work though, did it? Poole, I'm about to do something that could blow up in my face. What else is new?
Then Poole saw a coagulating seriousness in Hatchet's expression. I'm gonna stay away from you from here on out, friend, Hatchet told him. What are you going to do? I can't tell you. We've been through a lot for you to just cut me off. You have your secrets; I have mine. Shove it, Marcus; after all I've done for you? Poole, Hatchet's eyes reached out to him and he could feel their calloused grip, I appreciate you more than I've appreciated anyone else in my life; I've never said this to you but I love you, brother. Poole wanted to laugh but the grip muzzled him and he accepted the sincerity of the words and the hue of unpolished stone that had found purchase in Hatchet's face. That's why I'm leaving you out, brother; this is drastic shit and I don't want you involved; I've nearly ruined your life over this and I'm not taking that chance again; besides, Hatchet reached out and touched Poole's shoulder, you need to make some decisions. What do you mean? You know what I mean; we'll be old men before too long and you have people you need to stop dragging around; you need to either pick them up and carry them with you or leave them behind; you have some decisions to make, know what I mean? you can’t leave people in peril.
In Poole's dreams that night, all the years they had known each other, all the adventures, both trivial and significant, played out across the buffed hardwood stage. All the players that had been a part of their story entered the lights and reprised their roles and recited their lines and made their exits. He watched a younger man portray him, going through his blocking and repeating each of his mistakes, reliving each of his triumphs. Jane danced with him and sang with him then donned her dark veil, disappearing in a somber crescendo. His wife, poor and defenseless against the following spotlight, found refuge somehow as all his petty infidelities played out before him, an audience of one in the vast amorphous theater and he felt more lonely than he had ever felt in his entire life. He watched them one by one disappearing into the terminal shadow until at last stood Hatchet, smiling then bowing until the final curtain fell.
However, one last character had yet to make an appearance. Poole sensed her milling somewhere behind the draping maroon, the folds of it waving like cilia. Then she materialized from a open gash in the color, her braided hair and pink cheeks. Though he had spent very little time with her in the eighteen years since her birth, he felt he knew every curve in her face and every wild hair on her head. She had no lines to recite but her need to say something, anything, shown in her trembling eyes.
Edit 1.1.2019