Read Online Tietam Brown by Mick Foley - Free Book Online

flesh. “Do you want to hang out with him?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThen I’ll tell you what I want you to do, Andy. I want you to go home now, because I have a lot to do here without baby-sitting your emotions. Go home and think about what you really want. And if you decide that what you want is me, then we’ll move on. And Andy . . .” She paused a moment and continued, “One of these days, you’re going to have to kiss me.”
    My heart started pounding, and the watermelon returned in my throat, bigger than ever. I tried to read her mind. Was she trying to tell me to kiss her now? Did one of these days mean today, right now? I thought it did, decided to act, then saw the thousand strong in the Conestoga High gym. What if “one of these days” didn’t mean today? Was I man enough to face a rejection right there, in front of so many witnesses? I decided that, no, I was not ready, and meekly, without the slightest hint of intestinal fortitude, said, “Don’t worry, I will.”
    â€œBye,” she said.
    â€œOkay, bye.”
    And while the speaker played “I’m gonna keep on lovin’ you, ’cause it’s the only thing I want to do,” I slunk out of the high school gym, looking back once to see Terri waving, thinking that even from that distance, I could see a small tear in her eyes. Her eyes that shine like a midnight sun. Whatever the hell that means.
    I got into the car and pulled
Born to Run
from its slot. Bruce, you’d let me down, man. Let me down bad. Slowly I opened the glove box and put the Boss away. I closed my eyes, pulled out another eight-track, and slid it in, sight unseen. Then, as I pulled out of the lot, I pushed it in with the palm of my right hand.
    â€œMacho, macho man—I want to be a macho man.”
    I stopped the car. Ejected the tape. Opened the door. And threw that SOB as far into the woods as I possibly could.
    Silence, I decided, was what I needed to hear.

October 30, 1985 / 11:57 p.m.
    I was in urgent need of a man-to-man talk. A talk with someone who could understand my feelings, with someone who knew about life and all the mysteries tucked away inside its many wrinkles. I chose instead to talk with my dad.
    I walked inside our little home, kept oddly neat for a single man and his teenage son. The living room was bare, with not a painting adorning its walls or even a television to gather round. Indeed the room served only as my father’s all-nude workout room, the deck of playing cards and a few dozen empty Gennys the only reminder that life actually transpired within its walls.
    â€œDad, Dad,” I called, “I’m home.” Silence. I gave it another try. “Dad, it’s Andy, are you home?” Nothing. I knew that my father often spent hours on end inside his bedroom, the place he went to do his “work,” which he often spoke of in the vaguest terms possible. So, with a heavy heart and a giant question mark for a brain, I headed up the stairs, nursing the tiny hope that Antietam Brown IV could shed some light on the last few hours of clouds that had formed over my life.
    I knocked lightly and received no response, then again, and heard the faint sound of papers rustling from seemingly far away. I had never been in my dad’s bedroom, as it was strictly off limits and kept most of the time under lock and key. “This is where the magic takes place, Andy,” he’d once said. “And a good magician never reveals his secrets.”
    â€œDad, it’s Andy, are you in there?” I said, and I heard a door shut and footsteps approach.
    â€œAndy?” he asked through the door.
    â€œYeah, Dad, it’s me.”
    â€œWhat do you want, kid?”
    â€œWell believe it or not, I just want to talk to you.”
    â€œI’m pretty busy here, Andy.”
    â€œIt won’t take too long, Dad . . . promise.”
    â€œI don’t know, kid, like I