Walking Backwards - Episode 16
Drew comes up with a plan to solve all of his problems but he will learn he doesn't have as much control as he thinks he does.
This is the sixteenth episode of Walking Backwards, the third collection of not quite true tales of Texas. Previous collections are:
The Cold Days of Summer - If you are new to these tales and the type who likes to know how things started I would recommend starting here.
The Hollow Men - the second collection of not quite true tales of Texas.
New episodes are posted (almost) every Sunday. You can move easily between episodes via links to the previous and next episode.
If you are new to these not quite true tales of Texas but are the type who likes to dive right in you could start with the prologue to Walking Backwards. The prologue provides a summary of the first two collections and descriptions of the major characters you will be reading about in Walking backwards.
In our last episode, episode 15 of Walking Backwards, the cracks in Drew are getting harder to ignore and to mend.
A plan for everything (in the darkest night)
It is a curse to see the future, to see the potential consequences of each and every action. It makes you afraid to move forward with your eyes open. Finally the fear wears you down so you walk blindly into life, just hoping you won’t walk off the cliff today. You try to plan, to take into account anything that could happen and will happen, but plans are never perfect, there’s always a flaw, a forgotten step, an unseen consequence. Fear drives the planner, fear of what will happen if there’s no plan, fear of what will happen anyway. It is fear that gnaws you, that wears you away, who watches you sleep at night and is there when you wake in the morning.
It took me a couple of weeks to figure it out. But I'm good at puzzles, maybe not at first, but after awhile I see the patterns, I see how the pieces fit and I know what to do.
Stan has no form, no purpose, no meaning and all he is a reflection of me. He confirmed it, and that's what led me to where I am.
I'm alive but not really. I'm not a part of anything, never have been. I know other people feel connected to this world, I know this. Years ago at our ten year high school reunion J.T. told me about the way he and Sue felt about their home, about what it feels to be part of the dirt, the sky, the trees, to belong, to know you belong, to be a part of the larger world. I know some people feel that way, but I don't, never have, and according to my final plan, I never will.
Like all good plans, my final plan takes into account that changes can occur and adjustments should be made. The worst thing is to blindly follow a plan, particularly when the world drastically changes. My plan is not like that. I have alternatives, adjustments, I can adapt to the changes quickly and efficiently. My plan is really multiple plans, and which one I take depends on which way the world shifts, but all of my plans work towards the same goal. I'm ready for anything.
Mark's plan was selfish, he caused too much pain for those left behind. My plan is better, it is unselfish. I won't leave anyone behind.
There's too much pain in this world. There's too much randomness, just shit that happens for no purpose at all, just chaos. There's no purpose, no meaningful feedback. I know, I've been running experiments and all of the data supports my original theory. I'm a scientist in the study of life and its purpose and the data I've collected says there is no purpose. Let me give you an example. It doesn't matter how hard I work or how much I slack off, I still get paid. I can coast for an entire week and then burn like crazy for four hours on a Friday afternoon or I can work like a dog the entire week, hard, focused, never straying and the results are the same. I get paid the same no matter the effort. Doesn't make any sense. What I do has so little importance it doesn't matter if I'm here or not.
I have them all. A plan for living. A plan for dying. A plan for salvation. A plan for damnation. I have them all. I know the steps, I know what I need to do. I just don’t know which plan to put into action. But I will, soon.
One more day
A plan for dying.
An unselfish plan. First thing is to get the materials. I buy a small pistol, a box of bullets. I pass the background check easily. I used half the bullets at the shooting range, getting comfortable with the kick and feel of the pistol. Next I pick the date. Wednesday, May 20, 1992. Why that date? It just feels right.
I needed the right sequence, of who first, then second and on till the end. I decided on Ann first, then Rae, then the dogs, probably Sam first, then Buster, then me. And with me, the plan would be done.
Yeah, an unselfish plan, or as close to one as I can get without going absolutely crazy. A hard plan to execute, but the right plan. First, take out the one who will fight the most, take care of Ann in her sleep. Early morning is the best time, say 4:00 am, an hour before I usually get up, but while Ann is still deep in sleep. The sound of the gun will wake Rae and the dogs. Rae will be crying so I will have to comfort her at first before I take care of her. Then the dogs. Sam might be angry and evasive, might take two bullets to get her completely down, then Buster, then me. One, two, three, four, five, maybe six bullets. Lot of noise so I have to move fast. Need to move fast because I don't want to be stopped once I start, until I finish.
In early May I walk through the plan, waking up at 4:00 am, rehearsing my steps, starting in our bedroom, then walking to Rae's room, then back to our room. Sam follows me, shadows me, watches me. She suspects something. She quietly whines as I rehearse the plan. The rest are dead asleep while I rehearse. Soon, they will be dead.
There will be some pain, there will be some left behind, but the ones left behind are miles away. Nothing I can do about that.
I am at peace, finally at peace. No more voices, no more dreams. I control my destiny. Now that the future is set, I take care of business. I take care of loose ends. I complete honey-do tasks I have long avoided. I am a good husband. I am a good father. I do what must and needs to be done.
The middle of May 1992 comes. One more rehearsal, then a few days rest and the execution of the plan. I am so relaxed, so content. This is the way life is supposed to be, certainty, confidence of what is to come. Yes, this is how life is supposed to be.
Tuesday, May 19, 1992 I surprise Ann and Rae by coming home early from work and taking them out to dinner. We go to El Toro's in Clute and have some good Tex-Mex. A great evening was had by all.
We go to bed and I fall asleep quickly, my internal clock set to go off at 3:55 am.
I wake up, the clock on the bedside table says 3:57 am. Not bad, only two minutes off. Ann was deep asleep. I thought the rest of the house was asleep but was wrong.
I open my eyes and start to rise out of bed, but stopped at the sound of a low throated growl inches away from my right ear. Sam was standing close to my side of the bed. I looked at her. She wasn't smiling. She wasn't happy with me. She was angry and was letting me know it. I moved my hand to the edge of the bed to help myself up and she growled a little deeper.
Sam lowered her head so that her snout was under my hand. She pushed my hand back onto the bed. I've seen her hackles raised when she had seen something that disturbed her, frightened her, surprised her in the wrong way. This was different. She was angry at me and that low growl told me all I needed to know. She was not going to let me get out of bed this morning, at least not right now. At least not right now with the intentions I had to clean up this mess of a life.
I laid there for a moment thinking over my choices. I close my eyes and listen. I can hear her right next to me. She doesn't trust me. I understand that. Can't say I trust myself. This morning Sam is damn determined to keep me from executing the plan. It was a standoff. She refused to leave the side of the bed and she made it clear. Time passed. Then something changed. I made my decision. I would wait until tomorrow. I don't know how she knows it but she knows it. She smells it. She senses it. She backs up from the bed just a little bit but keeps a wary eye on me till I hear the clock downstairs toll 5 AM. It's time for me to get up, and get ready in order to be on the road to Houston by 6 AM. It’s time for me to act as if nothing strange has gone on this night and life is as normal as ever.
I walk towards the bathroom. Sam watches me as I get ready for another day. The last thing I do before I leave the house is start Ann’s coffee brewing. As I walk out the door, Sam follows me to the door. I walk to the truck, look back and I see Sam standing on her haunches, looking out the front door window. She doesn’t move from that spot as I drive away. I wonder how long she stood there, guarding the front door, the house and all that she loved from me.
Traffic was traffic, work was work. I existed through the day and came home. Sam placed herself between Ann, Rae, watching me as I ate dinner.
I wake up the next day, May 21, 1992 at 3:53 AM. Sam is in the bedroom, a couple of feet away from the bed, watching me. She is alert and I knew she would move quickly if I made a move she didn’t like or trust. Then the weird shit happened. The room began to spin slowly counterclockwise. The walls melted away and I was outside but in a place not familiar to me. The colors of this place were muted. It was night, but no stars could be seen as the clouds rolled overhead as the wind blew firmly. I was now standing and facing an old man. I didn’t recognize him, but he claimed to know me. He began to speak and there was something in his voice that was familiar but I could not place why the voice was familiar.
“Stan, who you call the skeleton man, is an imperfect image of your current self, a puzzling reflection.
“I am an imperfect image of your future self, not of what you will be but what you could be.
“There is no destiny, only choices and it is the choices we make now that determine the next set of choices we face. The next road, the next path, but at any point in time, we can stop and no longer be burdened by the choices of the past. We can start anew, fresh and make new choices that take us down paths different than the paths we were headed on before. We can do this at any time, any day, any moment. We just have to choose to forge a new path. Today, right now, this moment all you need to know is this: one more day.”
This new world began to spin around me clockwise, it spun faster and faster until the world faded away to be replaced by the walls of our bedroom. The spinning stopped. I felt dizzy and sat up hoping I could get a sense of balance back. Sam was still watching me from the same position she was in when the walls melted. I looked at her. She looked at me.
“One more day.”
I look around for the source of the voice but there is no one awake, no one else there.
“One more day.”
I fall back asleep. At 5:00 AM I wake up. Sam is still watching me. I get out of bed and get ready for work.
Traffic was traffic, work was work. I existed through the day and came home.
May 21, 1992 – 3:53 AM. I wake up. I sense Sam is in the bedroom watching me. I sense this, but I cannot confirm it because I am frozen, can’t move a muscle.
“One more day.”
This infuriates me. I struggle to rise, but I cannot. I cannot move a muscle. I lay there in that paralyzed state until I hear the clock downstairs toll 5:00 AM.
“One more day.”
I admit defeat. Not today, maybe tomorrow.
May 23, 1992 through May 30, 1992 – the same story. I wake up at 3:53 AM but am paralyzed. Sam is in the bedroom watching my closely. Twice I hear “One more day.” The clock tolls 5:00 AM, my muscles relax. I go about my day.
Things change a bit on May 31, 1992. Not a lot, just a bit. I manage to get out of bed. Sam watches me closely, and alternates between a whine and a low growl. I walk to my closet, reach up high on the shelf and bring down my pistol, already loaded. I walk back to our bed, to where Ann is sleeping.
I take a deep breath. I am ready.
“One more day.”
Shit!
“One more day.”
This is getting ridiculous. I’m getting tired of my plan being messed with but my left arm is frozen to my side. I can’t move my arm, hand or fingers. My right hand reaches for my left, tries to move it but my left arm is as stiff as stone. I try to remove the pistol from my left hand but I cannot. I wait, wondering what will happen but knowing where this will all end. I give up for this day as the downstairs clock tolls 5:00 AM. I heed the voice for one more day.
June 1, 1992 – The twelfth day. I wake up. I get up. No voices speak to me. I walk to my closet, get the gun, walk over to Ann’s side of the bed and stop, frozen in place. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. Seconds, maybe a minute pass. I need to breathe. I don’t know what to do or what is happening but I take a chance. I say to myself in my head “One more day.” My muscles relax. I take a deep and long breath. I try to raise the gun but my muscles freeze again. The whole routine repeats. I can’t breathe. I can’t move. I am stuck. I say to myself “One more day” and admit defeat. I walk back to the closet, and put the gun back on the shelf.
I wait one more day over and over. For twenty-eight more days I wake up early, I fight to execute the plan but my muscles freeze until I say to myself “One more day.” I have lost control.
On the fortieth day of my journey to what I thought would be a lifeless desert I heard a voice say to me clearly and firmly “Your story is not over.” The voice is familiar to me, one I’ve know all of my life. It is my voice.
I'm stubborn. No doubt about it. But I'm not stupid. I might be crazy but I'm not stupid. I get the point. Tommy told me a long time ago that you don't get to choose when you die. It's not my right. Something, someone is telling me this. Something, someone is preventing me from completing my plan.
On the morning of Monday, June 29, 1992, after the fortieth day of failing to execute my plan I gave up. That morning I took my pistol and bullets with me to Houston for work. At lunch I drove to the gun shop and sell the pistol back and ask the dealer to dispose of the bullets. The dealer asked me why I returned the gun. I tell him my plans changed.
I will live, but I'm broken.
You get what you can take, part 2
I am broken, no doubt about that. I'm crazy too. No sane person tries to do what I tried to do. Shit, I planned the murder of my wife and daughter, my dogs and my own suicide and I explain it all to myself as some grand gesture of unselfishness. Damn, I'm broken and crazy.
I don't know why Mark did what he did. He said he was tired of living, of not being in control of his world, of his life. He said I knew how he felt. I did and do. He couldn't talk about how he felt to anyone. Neither can I. He said there was no point to anything. Man, do I know how that feels.
When I was young I learned to control the voices no one else heard by ignoring them, not listening to them. Now the voices control me. It was a voice that stopped me from what I had planned to do. I can't trust myself. I have to be wary of my own actions, my own thoughts.
I don't want to be awake. I don't want to sleep. I can tell no one what is in my mind. If I did I would lose all that I have. My only choice is to tell no one. They will never know, they must never know.
What I must do is figure this out. Think it through. Understand why I cracked, where I cracked and how to repair the damage. If it is my curse to live, I will live.
My Dad told me a long time ago you get what you can take. This is what I have. I will make it work. I just need to figure out how to make it work.
Author’s note: There’s a lot to unpack and reference in this episode. Some of you reading this might think things got all tied up in a too quick fashion. Let’s look back at the timeline:
July 1988 - Drew and Ann marry.
February 1989 - Rick Anders dies.
May 1989 - Rae Bettina Remington, Ann’s and Drew’s daughter is born.
October 1989 - Mark Johnson commits suicide.
March 1990 - Drew visits Mark in the cold, dark and rainy field that Mark has been stuck in since his suicide.
October 1989 to January 1992 - Drew has been “walking in darkness.”
April 1992 - Drew decides to cleanup his mess of a life.
May-June 1992 - For 40 days Drew attempts to execute his plan but fails.
June 29, 1992 - Drew gives up on his plan and decides to live since he seems to have no choices in the matter.
A lot of time has passed in the last few episodes.
References to past episodes are many in this episode. I use these references to tie related themes or ideas together.
In the darkest night has appeared twice before:
Way back in The Hollow Men is the first reference to “the darkest night.”
The second reference is in Episode 3 of Walking Backwards.
“You get what you can take” is a callback to an early episode of The Cold Days of Summer, where Eugene Remington tries to explain to Drew that even in what seems like a hard time you can find the good. If I ever see Hilton Chancellor again I will tell him that it was something he told me a long time ago that led to “you get what you can take.”
An earlier version of this week’s episode was much darker. The end results were the same: Drew realizes he doesn’t have control, but the path to that realization was a little harder to read and write. I wrote this newer version over the last week and there were two influences that led to the changes:
“The story is not over” comes from Project Semicolon. I referenced the Wikipedia information as the official website is under construction. A semicolon is an indicator the story is not over. This reminded me of “life goes on forever, but the people in it seem to come and go.”
I read “A Touch of Petulance” from “Killer, Come back to Me,” a collection of Ray Bradbury’s crime stories. Excellent stuff. A number of Ray’s crime stories were used during the 1950’s in Old Time Radio shows like Suspense and Escape and in EC Comics.
Next week in episode 17 Drew begins to walk forward but the path is not easy. He meets with Mark in the field and is reminded of something that Rick told him a long time ago.
WOW...dark but true, too true