Read Online White Space Season 2 by Platt + Wright - Free Book Online
Authors: Platt + Wright
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He shook his head, then turned around, meeting the eyes of all who were staring. Part of him wanted to apologize, the rest wanted to finish saying what had to be said.
“You all act like God allowed this shit to happen to our kids. And I ain’t talkin’ about missing kids and crap. I’m talking about the shootings. They ain’t got nothin’ to do with God. Roger Heller pulled the trigger. Roger Heller, a man you all trusted, shot these poor kids without even thinking. You all deserve this shit to happen again if you don’t wake the fuck up and do something about it now.”
With the words finally out of his mouth, Bruce turned and stormed from the auditorium, then outside, and to the parking lot. He climbed in his truck, slammed his thumb on the button to turn the ignition, and tore into the street, headed home.
Halfway there, Bruce decided he wasn’t ready to walk through the door, especially so drunk. Linda would still be awake. She’d smell his breath and give him more shit than he was currently willing to take. He was a bit tipsy, but not so drunk he couldn’t drive. He headed to Shipwrecked, then went inside, determined to get good and wasted.
**
“Fine, fuck you, too,” Bruce said as Lewis, the bartender, escorted him out from the bar and into the parking lot. “I called you a cab.”
“No, I’ll walk,” Bruce said, waving the bartender away.
Once he saw Lewis head back inside, Bruce made his way back to his truck, hopped in, and fumbled under the seat for his emergency bottle of Smirnoff. His hand found nothing.
“Mother fucker,” he said as he leaned over and fished for the bottle from among the cigarette wrappers and empty McDonald’s bags littering the floor of the truck. He finally found it, not under a bag but under the passenger seat. He twisted the cap, took a massive swig, then replaced the cap and started the car, catching a glance in the mirror and realizing just how sloshed he actually was.
Bruce thought of Teddy, and burst into sobbing, heaving tears.
He flashed back to when Teddy was just 6 years old, back when he looked up to his Daddy so much. Back before he was the strict asshole bad guy he turned into after catching Teddy with his first blunt. Bruce remembered his son making him an elaborate drawing of the two of them together, fishing. While Teddy had drawn stuff all the time for Mommy, this was the first drawing he’d ever made for Bruce.
“That is so beautiful, Son,” he said, hugging his boy.
Bruce caught his reflection in the mirror, and shook his head in disgust — at both the situation and with himself.
I punched Jerry Barlow. Jesus Christ.
He thought of his son looking down from Heaven, ashamed at what he’d become. He didn’t picture his son as he was when he died, a 17-year-old young man. He pictured him as the 6-year-old boy who had once admired him more than anything else in the world. Who had looked up to Daddy like he had an S on his chest and a big, red cape billowing behind him.
Bruce turned on the radio to kill some time before driving home.
He found a sports show on satellite that he liked to listen to whenever he had a chance. He leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. The hosts, two guys, Rod and Rick, were making fun of the Seahawks again , and their rookie wide receiver who got busted sending photos of his junk to a wrong number, which just happened to belong to his pastor. Bruce laughed. “What a moron,” he said to his empty cabin.
The radio signal started to crackle with a strange warble, as if stuck between stations.
Fucking signal is always bullshit around here.
Bruce put the truck into drive and tapped on the gas, inching it through the lot and aiming his tires toward a better signal. It was funny how a few feet could mean all the difference in the world between crystal clear and utter crap.
When Rod’s voice came back loud and clear, Bruce put the truck into park and sat, engine still running, in case he had to move
“You all act like God allowed this shit to happen to our kids. And I ain’t talkin’ about missing kids and crap. I’m talking about the shootings. They ain’t got nothin’ to do with God. Roger Heller pulled the trigger. Roger Heller, a man you all trusted, shot these poor kids without even thinking. You all deserve this shit to happen again if you don’t wake the fuck up and do something about it now.”
With the words finally out of his mouth, Bruce turned and stormed from the auditorium, then outside, and to the parking lot. He climbed in his truck, slammed his thumb on the button to turn the ignition, and tore into the street, headed home.
Halfway there, Bruce decided he wasn’t ready to walk through the door, especially so drunk. Linda would still be awake. She’d smell his breath and give him more shit than he was currently willing to take. He was a bit tipsy, but not so drunk he couldn’t drive. He headed to Shipwrecked, then went inside, determined to get good and wasted.
**
“Fine, fuck you, too,” Bruce said as Lewis, the bartender, escorted him out from the bar and into the parking lot. “I called you a cab.”
“No, I’ll walk,” Bruce said, waving the bartender away.
Once he saw Lewis head back inside, Bruce made his way back to his truck, hopped in, and fumbled under the seat for his emergency bottle of Smirnoff. His hand found nothing.
“Mother fucker,” he said as he leaned over and fished for the bottle from among the cigarette wrappers and empty McDonald’s bags littering the floor of the truck. He finally found it, not under a bag but under the passenger seat. He twisted the cap, took a massive swig, then replaced the cap and started the car, catching a glance in the mirror and realizing just how sloshed he actually was.
Bruce thought of Teddy, and burst into sobbing, heaving tears.
He flashed back to when Teddy was just 6 years old, back when he looked up to his Daddy so much. Back before he was the strict asshole bad guy he turned into after catching Teddy with his first blunt. Bruce remembered his son making him an elaborate drawing of the two of them together, fishing. While Teddy had drawn stuff all the time for Mommy, this was the first drawing he’d ever made for Bruce.
“That is so beautiful, Son,” he said, hugging his boy.
Bruce caught his reflection in the mirror, and shook his head in disgust — at both the situation and with himself.
I punched Jerry Barlow. Jesus Christ.
He thought of his son looking down from Heaven, ashamed at what he’d become. He didn’t picture his son as he was when he died, a 17-year-old young man. He pictured him as the 6-year-old boy who had once admired him more than anything else in the world. Who had looked up to Daddy like he had an S on his chest and a big, red cape billowing behind him.
Bruce turned on the radio to kill some time before driving home.
He found a sports show on satellite that he liked to listen to whenever he had a chance. He leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. The hosts, two guys, Rod and Rick, were making fun of the Seahawks again , and their rookie wide receiver who got busted sending photos of his junk to a wrong number, which just happened to belong to his pastor. Bruce laughed. “What a moron,” he said to his empty cabin.
The radio signal started to crackle with a strange warble, as if stuck between stations.
Fucking signal is always bullshit around here.
Bruce put the truck into drive and tapped on the gas, inching it through the lot and aiming his tires toward a better signal. It was funny how a few feet could mean all the difference in the world between crystal clear and utter crap.
When Rod’s voice came back loud and clear, Bruce put the truck into park and sat, engine still running, in case he had to move
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