6

With my running shoes tied, I get up off the bed and stare at the phone. What had been a feeling of elation just moments ago, is now dread. The phone is presently face-down on the dresser, and that’s a good thing. It means I don’t know for certain that Jennifer left me another text. Maybe the cop left one for me. Maybe she’s checking in on me.

Elation to dread in sixty seconds flat. It’s another one of those things about me the doctors studied. My perpetually conflicting emotions. Don’t get the wrong idea. It’s not like I’m bipolar or anything. It’s just that my moods can change at the drop of a dime. They drove my ex-wives nuts. My most recent wife, Laura, used to say I changed my moods like girls change their underwear. Okay, so I’m a writer and an artist. We’re all a little cray cray, aren’t we?

Shifting my body closer to the nightstand, I open the drawer and pull out my .45. I thumb the magazine release and examine the nine, hollow point rounds it houses. For the hell of it, I pull back on the slide and allow a round to enter the chamber.

“Locked and loaded,” I say.

I engage the safety and return the gun to the safety of the drawer. Closing the drawer, I can recall how the doctors grilled me on owning any firearms. Since it was easy for them to check with the county, I admitted I owned a pistol, but then I lied by swearing I’d gotten rid of it. I guess the doctors could have made a check on that too since selling a firearm back to a gun store or selling it to another party involves paperwork that’s to be filed not only with the county but with the feds. I guess the doctors weren’t as thorough as I thought. Or maybe they just thought, “Fuck it. If this guy wants to kill himself or anyone else for that matter, he’s going to damn well find a way to do it.”

Of course, that was a long time ago and I’m better now. Maybe Laura left me, but the cop is proof that I’m a man of sound mind and body.

“Damn straight,” I say, getting up from the bed.

Approaching the dresser, I reach out with my hand and take hold of the phone. But when I’m about to turn it over to read the screen, I whisper, “Forget it for now.”

Setting the phone back down, I exit the bedroom and head back down the rickety wood staircase. I pass through the old dining room with its brick fireplace and black iron pokers. I head into the kitchen and make my way across the floor to the door. Opening the wood door, I head outside and inhale the sweet fall air. The Fall. It’s my favorite time of year. It’s usually when I’m at my most creative, as opposed to the hot, humid, oppressive summer months where all I want to do is sit in front of an air conditioner and drink beer.

I walk the length of the house past the slate floor and wood trellis-covered outdoor barbeque area until I come to the gravel driveway. My red Toyota pickup is parked there instead of inside the one barn that hasn’t been renovated. It’s not only where I store the truck but also store all sorts of tools, including a ride-on lawn mower, shovels, pickaxes, axes, chains, sickles, reapers, scythes, and all sorts of assorted crap that came with the place when I bought it. Most of the stuff you can easily use as weapons if you want. There’s even an old CAT tractor that still runs.

I should probably stretch myself out a little but the shot of whiskey I drank with my coffee seems to have loosened me up enough. I start my jog at the top of the drive. I pass through the open white picket fence gates and hook a left onto the road. I navigate a gentle incline past my farmland on the left and thick, second-growth woods on the right side of the road.

Rumors are spreading that a bunch of the land across the road is about to be developed into a luxury housing development for all the rich people who are escaping the madness of New York City. If that happens, I’m moving out. I’ll head north or maybe across the border to Vermont or New Hampshire where there’s always woods and peace and quiet.

I reach the top of the hill. A car goes by. It’s a Tesla. A middle-aged man is driving while his blonde trophy wife rides shotgun. They both stare at me like I’m some kind of freak of nature. He makes a comment, and she laughs. I smile at them and wave anyway. But then, why do I get the feeling they’re laughing at me and not with me? “Look at that crazy old bastard,” I imagine the driver saying. “I can walk faster than he runs.”

They pass me by. For a split second, I consider raising my right hand and flipping them off. He’ll see me in the rearview. Maybe he’ll get pissed off enough to turn around and confront me. Things could get physical. That would be fine by me. He’s about my age, and I lift a lot of free weights which means I’m almost certainly stronger than him. But that’s also the whiskey talking. In the end, I decide to keep my hands where they belong.

I’m feeling the sweat building up now under my hooded gray sweatshirt. It’s the kind of sweatshirt you are issued in high school. Same with my sweatpants. My running shoes are cheap Nike cross-trainers. I needed a new pair ages ago. But who says bestselling mystery authors have an extra hundred at hand to buy a new pair of shoes? Especially a bestselling writer who’s got writer’s block.

A pickup truck goes by. Like the couple in the Tesla, the gruff-looking driver stares at me, and smirks. Maybe he’s saying the same thing to himself. “I can walk faster than this idiot runs.”

Suddenly, a wave of anxiety washes over me.

“Fuck...me,” I whisper. “Why now?”

The dreaded anxiety. It’s hounded me my entire life. It’s one of the reasons I bought the farm all those years ago (no pun). People make me crazy. It’s why I don’t attend writer’s conferences. It’s why I don’t have friends, only acquaintances. The cop is the exception to the rule. I have my fans too. But I keep them at arm’s length at best. I don’t do signings. Anyway, what’s the point? I sell eBooks mostly. You can’t sign an eBook.

My heart is beating faster than nature or God intended by the time I reach the one-mile mark. It’s where I usually turn around unless I feel like doing another half mile. But this morning I can’t wait to get back home. Home and dry. My heart beats even faster as I jog in the opposite direction. Breathing is shallow. I run another couple hundred yards. Dizziness sets in and my knees go wobbly.

And then...