Cryin' in the Rain

Hey Folks. It's cold out there. We have a new year and all kinds of things to think about. For this story I thought about the way that JPB tends to leave a lot of his stories open at the end. I think that in some cases this is a great tool because the reader can imagine his own ending. In others it can be extremely frustrating because our minds always cry out to know what happened next. So I'm going to leave this one up to you. I have several possible endings in mind and I'll read all of the messages I get after this one and write something along the lines of whatever most of you want to see (kind of). Thanks as usual to Barney-R for his editing wizardry. Thanks also to all of you who read them. SS06

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A black cat moans, when he's burning with the fever.

A stray dog howls, when he's lonely in the night.

A woman goes crazy, with the thought of retribution.

But, a man starts weeping, when he's sick and tired of life.

God Damn that man can sing. This isn't even my favorite song from the album, but I keep playing it over and over and over again, because he knows what I'm feeling.

What I'm feeling is the deep down in your soul misery. I'm talking about the blues.

Okay you're laughing, now huh? You're shaking your head and telling yourself that I don't know anything about the blues. I don't know anything about the music or the feelings.

One of the things about the twenty-first century is that all of the old paradigms and stereotypes don't mean a thing. Another thing is that I don't understand any of what's going on. What the fuck is going on with all of these little white girls that are all about that bass, or who rap and sound like they grew up in the ghetto, but they come from places like Australia?

Okay, Music seriously has become an international language. It is no longer bound to any race creed or gender. So if this is true, why the fuck can't I feel the blues?

My life means nothing to me anymore. There are times when I feel not only like I just can't go on, but like I'm walking slowly towards a grave that I just dug for myself with a shovel made of my own heart and spine.

Today is one of those days. It's one of those days that I have to do something that I know will kill me. And the pain is already so deep inside of me that life simply has no meaning for me. That, boys and girls, is the blues.

Okay, I have a great career. I make a reasonable amount of money. I lived in a beautiful house with a woman I loved and have a lot of friends. I say loved because I don't think she's mine anymore. That's the blues.

The customized Mustang that I'm driving to my date with destiny has an engine bay that looks like it was designed by NASA not NASCAR.

My huge ball bearing supercharger emits the tiniest little whine at eighty five miles per hour. It's not even loaded at this pedestrian speed. The engine makes over eight hundred horsepower, so the whine is more like my pony is asking to be set free than it is being taxed by driving this slowly.

It's actually really difficult for me to drive this slowly, but why the fuck would I want to get there any faster? Like I said before, when you're driving to your own execution, why would you want to get there quickly? That is... The blues.

"I keep on dreaming, dreams of tomorrow.

Feel I'm wasting my time, lighting candles in the wind.

Always taking my chances, on the promise of the future.

But, a heart full of sorrow, paints a lonely tapestry."

I'm sure that none of you really think that Whitesnake is a blues band. I can hear you now saying, "SHIT, Dylan; Whitesnake is one of those 80's/90's hair metal bands. That's not the blues."

Or "For heaven's sake Dylan, you've got your entire life ahead of you. Get over it. Move on!"

But how exactly do I move on, when my lungs have been ripped out of my chest while attached to my still beating heart and stuck on a plate right in front of me?

"The sun is shining, but it's raining in my heart."

I guess if you knew all of the facts in the story it would help you to understand my pain. I mean it doesn't make sense. If this was a fuckin' movie, I'd be about to ride off into the sunset on my faithful stallion, with the girl clasped firmly in one muscular arm. Her attention would be riveted on me, while I casually blew on the end of my smoking hot shooting iron to cool it off after sending a hot lump of lead squarely up the villain's ass.

But this is Michigan, not the old west. And the good guys don't always get the girl. Sometimes life just makes no fucking sense. Sometimes even when you love her far more than the other guy can possibly ever think of. Even when you do all the right things, say all the right things, make all the right moves... You still don't ride off into the sunset with the girl.

And it's ten... Make that twenty times worse, when you know that he's only going to fuck her over, and there's nothing you can do about it. How do I know so much about him and what he wants to do?

That's easy, you see, I grew up with him. We moved next door to each other. We were born within minutes of each other in hospitals that were more than a thousand miles apart. However, our families moved onto the same block within minutes of each other, into houses that were right next door to each other.

As if fate had decreed it, the two of us, each three years old, wandered away from the chaos of moving into new homes. And just as fate intended walked straight to each other. Two wonderful, young mothers simultaneously looked around and each discovered that they had not one, but two sons.

That's how close we were. If it is at all possible for twins to be born of different fathers and different mothers, then that's what Jimmy and I were. You never saw one of us without the other. There was no separating us, it just seemed odd.

After a while, our mothers even coordinated things like Christmas presents to make sure that there were no unfortunate incidents. Unfortunate incidents either resulted in money wasted or feelings hurt. Like the Christmas, when Jimmy got Laser tag and I got a Nintendo game system.

What ended up happening was Jimmy's mom, who's still to this day like my second mom ended up with her feelings hurt for a while. The woman went through hell getting him that laser tag set. It was one of the most popular gifts for boys that Christmas, and she was proud that she had fought her way through the crowds and lines in the store and emerged victorious.

The problem was that my Nintendo was something that both of us could play together. And we did, for literally hours at a time, while the expensive Laser gun and sensor sat there on a shelf.

Jimmy even started asking his mother for Nintendo games. "But Jimmy," she said. "You don't have a Nintendo game system."

"Yeah we do," he said in that totally sure voice-tone that only an eight-year-old can manage. "WE got it for Christmas."

After coming next door to watch us for a while, she realized her mistake and even told my mother about it. I don't think either of us noticed that the un-opened laser tag gun and sensor went back to the store the day after Christmas. But we both noticed when it was replaced by a host of two-player Nintendo cartridges.

And that was the way it worked, growing up. We did everything together. And the people around us adapted. I was a great runner, but Jimmy wasn't. But we were both on the track team.

Jimmy was the best starting offensive lineman on our high school football team. To keep him interested in football, they made me a tight end. Most of the time, Jimmy was double or even triple teamed by defensive players on the other team trying to get to our quarter back. Those mismatches meant that we really could have gone a player short, so my utter ineptitude, didn't matter.

Why, you wonder, didn't they put another tight end in? It was simple. They needed Jimmy. They wanted Jimmy. And if I got bored from sitting on the bench and quit, so did Jimmy.

It was the same thing in track. Okay, I was fast. Jimmy had all of the speed of an Ox among race horses. But he stayed on the team. Over time, our coach adapted. He made lemonade.

Jimmy, like most oxen, was slow. However, he was as strong as... an ox. Jimmy became a great shot putter and started to pull his weight and then to excel. As a tight end, I also blossomed. Let's face it; I was fast, but I didn't have the hands to be a wide receiver. I also didn't have the toughness or the bulk to be a running back.

But in our third or fourth game of the first season, the big defensive guys from the other team got past Jimmy and our line. Our quarterback was about to get his ass handed to him, so he just threw the ball up. I guess he knew that he was about to get crushed if he didn't get rid of it, and our eyes met.

In practice, they never threw me the ball. I was one of those Brandon Pettigrew type of tight ends that are only good for blocking. It was like they bought me a special type of gloves with the butter already spread on them. I never, and I mean never, in hundreds of snaps in practice, ever held onto a single pass.

And I know what Greg's motivation was. Our quarterback decided in that moment of fear to make me the scapegoat for his fear and his fuck up. Let's face it. It was the fourth quarter with time running down. Our coach had us taking our time running out the clock. We were down by a point. All we had to do was get into field goal range and our dead eye field goal kicker, would win the game for us.

Greg had a habit of hanging on to the ball too fucking long. Our coach threatened to bench him for it. So Greg, in that high pressure situation, instead of getting sacked, or taking a penalty for intentional grounding, decided to throw a short yardage pass to Butter Hands. That was my nickname. It caught on, so naturally they shortened it to just Butter. It pissed me off when they put it on my letter jacket.

Anyway, his reasoning was that when I dropped the ball, it would become my fault not his if we didn't get into field goal range.

The rest of the guys on the team all groaned when he threw the ball. A couple of them ran towards me just hoping that I could do the best thing they expected of me. That would be to hold onto the ball long enough for it to be considered a fumble when I dropped it. In that case, they could fall on it, and we'd keep possession. It was third down so at least we'd be able to punt the ball into safe territory.

However, I fucked all of that up. For some reason, even I can't explain it, I caught the ball. It was as if someone had replaced the "butter" with superglue. I was shocked. It was like electricity went through me as the crowd, including our parents, all cheered for me.

Then time started up again, and I realized that I was in danger. I heard one of the huge linemen on the other team, grunt, "Motherfucker," as if he was about to decapitate me for daring to catch the ball.

At the same time, I heard my coach yelling words of encouragement from the sidelines. "Run Dumb Ass," he yelled. And that was the one thing I knew how to do. I took off for the goal line and with a few of the guys who were hoping I would fumble providing key blocks I made it clear, and no one on that field had my speed.

My first touchdown changed things. It even changed my nickname. I became "the bomb." They called me that because I was like the atomic bomb. I was the weapon you didn't want to use. I was a weapon of last resort. In practice, every time they threw me the ball, I would drop it. If they tried to use me for short yardage in game situations, I would drop it. But if the game was on the line, and they had no other choice; I was golden. I scored nine or ten dramatic touchdowns out of fear and desperation that season, including two in one game at the division championships.

Smart teachers and coaches found ways to use both Jimmy and I. James Jessie, which was Jimmy's real name and Dylan Marshall, was a pair. That was just the way it worked.

Literally, no one was surprised when we turned eighteen and went off to college together. No one was surprised when we ended rooming together even though the roommate draw was supposed to be by random chance.

Over the years, we had spent so much time together that it was ridiculous. However, college was the first time we had actually lived together. At college, we became fully formed adults, and it also exposed all of the amazing differences in our personalities.

Jimmy was far more socially adept than I was. But I was far better in school. It wasn't just that I was better in some classes; it was as if Jimmy had never learned to study at all. I think a lot of our differences boiled down to our togetherness.

Jimmy had never seen the value of actually attending school. Since we'd always taken the same classes at the same time. We had always done our homework and assignments together. Most of the time it seemed like I did the work and Jimmy copied it. There were years when I did two science projects, one for myself and then one for him. He actually got better grades on those projects because he was more comfortable speaking in front of groups of people.

I would always get better grades on the actual exams, and that would balance out the project grades. We would end up getting similar grades. Our SAT scores really brought the academic differences home. However, even there, most of our teachers were convinced that it was a fluke due to the fact that Jimmy didn't do well on standardized tests, and that he was nervous about the test after being told how important the test was.

But in the end, since we had already both been accepted at Michigan, our SAT scores didn't really matter. However, college did expose several weaknesses. I wanted to major in engineering. Jimmy did too, but he knew that he was never going to pull off the math and science requirements. So we had to sit down and figure out what we wanted to do in life.

I wanted to have our own engineering business. I wanted to design and modify cars. Jimmy liked cars too so he thought it was a good idea, but since we were both going to play football, he thought that even planning for it would be a waste of time.

I went to my classes religiously. Jimmy laughed and got extra sleep. When the first semester was over, I had earned a bunch of credits towards my degree. Jimmy had dropped several classes, but knew everyone on campus.

Jimmy also had something that I had never thought of. Jimmy had a girlfriend. During high school both of us had dated. But we had gone out with a host of girls, not limited ourselves to one. Having a girlfriend is a lot of fucking work. You have to spend time with them.

Jimmy's girlfriend Sarah was one in a million. It takes a special type of woman, not only to accept the fact that the two of us were joined at the hip, but to fit in and be that woman in the middle.

Another huge gulf between us became apparent that year too. Jimmy was no longer a virgin since he, and Sarah were having all kinds of sex. After one of their arguments that happened because Sarah had apparently discovered that Jimmy was cheating on her, an amazing thing happened.

WE, yes I said we, sat down to discuss what had happened between them. While Jimmy pleaded with Sarah for a second chance, she demanded to know why he had done it.

He explained that Sarah, whether she knew it or not, had been his first. He'd simply been curious to see what it would be like to have sex with someone else. If she gave him another chance, it would never happen again. It had just been an overwhelming curiosity. He turned to me and asked me if I understood what he'd gone through.

I was embarrassed and had to admit to both of them that I had no experience on which to base an opinion.

"You mean you've only had sex with one girl, right," said Sarah triumphantly.

"No," I said timidly. "I've never had sex period."

Sarah agreed to give him another chance but with the stipulation that someday she might need to vent her own curiosity. Jimmy said, "No."

He told her that he loved her, but there was no way that he would walk around on eggshells for the rest of his life waiting for her to cheat on him. He said that if he agreed to it, years later, down the line when they were married and had kids, she might just decide to take him up on it. That, he said would be far more painful and more devastating than what he had just done.

His mistake and that was what it was, a mistake, had been born of youthful curiosity during the beginning of their lives together. She could wait until they had been together for years or even married with children. And then it would be something that he might never be able to get over.

"But I'm not interested in anyone except you," she said. "I might not ever do it."

"But you might," he said.

"I can't just let you do this to me without some kind of penalty," she said. "What would stop you from doing it again?"

"You're right, Honey," he said. "I need some kind of punishment. But the idea of some other guy even touching you makes me want to throw up." She looked into his eyes and saw the pain written there and a lot of regret.

I looked at him and saw the same con game he had run on our parents, our friends, and our teachers over the years. However, even I was unprepared for what came out of his mouth next.

"It's painful for me even to say this," he said with what looked like real tears in his eyes. "Sarah, I want you to have sex with Dylan."

"Huh?" I exclaimed. I was totally in shock.

"Okay," said Sarah. Truthfully, I later learned that she had painted herself into a corner. The poor girl really loved Jimmy and had only wanted him to agree not to cheat on her again. However, she had let her mouth draw a line in the sand that she couldn't back away from without appearing to be a doormat.

"Wait a minute," I said.

"What," asked both of them at the same time?

"Isn't your first time supposed to be... You know... special. And with someone you love?" I asked.

"You see," said Jimmy. "That's exactly why I can't let you read those God Damned books! No more reading for you Dylan. Go get your library card and bring it to me. As a matter of fact, the library is off-limits to you." Sarah just sat there with a smile on her face, looking at me. She had a real glow on her face.

"Dylan, when you meet this perfect girl and fall in love with her, do you want to be embarrassed and ruin your first time together by not knowing what the hell to do?" he asked.

"Do you want her to laugh at you and then go back and tell all of her friends how inept you were? How fucking romantic will that be?" he asked. "You know what will happen then, right?" he asked. I was horrified and had no idea.

"You'll realize that I was right. So you'll start trying to gain experience with girls you don't like so the next time you run into a girl that you do like, you'll know what to do. You'll end up screwing ugly girls, or smelly girls, or old women, or fat girls. They'll ruin the experience for you. Shit, you may end up turning gay," he said. Jimmy was on a roll.

"The perfect person for you to start with, has to pretty," he said. "Is Sarah pretty?" he asked.

I didn't say anything. "Dylan, open your God Damned mouth, or I'll embarrass you," he said.

"Yes," I said. "She is." Sarah blushed. Jimmy was a major con man.

"You're too God damned timid," he said. "Sarah, Honey, after our first date, the first time Dylan saw you. I asked him what he thought about you. I asked him then if he thought you were pretty. He said you were beyond pretty. He thought you were beautiful, and I was lucky to have you."

"Jimmy," I said sharply! I was pissed that he'd told her that. I just got up and walked out of our dorm. "You guys work out your problems without me."