Truth Is

27. Rosa Parks

There's a broken record singing in Thomas' skull as he plays with the food on the sectioned hospital cafeteria plate.

It has nothing to do with saints, or gavels, red hair, or devils, at least not for now.

Grandpa doesn't need to say it in some way that pertains to American Football or Rugby.

Jack doesn't have to say it in a brutally honest, slightly comical, jaded and bitter way.

And Frankie wouldn't be able say it at all.

No one listens. No one cares. No one wants to.

Well before Thomas learned what the Truth Is, he still talked to his parents, the same ones that told him to keep his mouth shut. He figured he learned something during his time away from home, figured that he had that maturity, discipline, and intelligence to make a difference in their lives.

He confronted his Dad about his drinking problem, that he could smell the whiskey on his breath and cigarettes on his coat. Truth is, the aroma made Thomas feel like he was home, but he knew what his father was doing would get him killed and that it was hurting the relationship (which had escalated from passive-aggressive to explosive) with his mother. He told him in a million different ways, a million different times.

He'd get responses like:

"I know, Son."

"Who are you, to tell me how to live MY life?"

"You live in a one bedroom apartment, and can't keep your dishes clean, and you're telling me what to do? Oh, that's rich."

"I'll work on it, promise."

They came in all flavors; sober as a bird, drunk as a monkey. Sometimes with a smile; others, veins bulging out of his head, or maybe between heavy sobs.

He'd asked his Mom to start eating healthier, get in better shape, and she'd say:

"I know, honey."

And go on sitting in-front of the T.V. watching Doctor Oz, crunching on some chips.

Thomas would say: "Maybe we can get a gym membership together."

"That sounds great, baby."

Crunch.

"Wanna go for a walk, Mom?"

"My feet hurt so bad from work."

Crunch. Crunch.

Thomas' Dad kept on drinking, and Thomas kept on pleading.

"Dad, Mom told me your doctor said your liver is looking a little rough."

"Uncle Bud, and Grandpa Jerry, and Cousin Caroline, they drank and smoked every day and the lived forever!"

He'd said this with the yellow creeping in on the corners of his eyes.

"I'm not an alcoholic. I've never even missed a day of work."

As if that's what determined if you were addicted to liquor or not. As if that was an entire Truth.

He finished by telling him his mother should commit a solo act of sex, and Thomas guessed that's all she ever really did anyway. She certainly wasn't screwing Mr. Torrance any longer. You'd be surprised how shallow male mistresses could be, or maybe you wouldn't...

It hurt to see them this way, but he just assumed that's how his parents were, there was no changing them. Can't teach an old dog, new tricks.

Then there was the day, that his mother brought over little Irene (Torrance, would you believe it?). His Mother was a substitute teacher, she preferred working for private schools (She didn't believe in God per say, but she thought His education system was better) and she was tutoring little Irene, 15 years old, a little too big for her britches Claudia would have said (Bless her soul.) Bare mid-drift, short shorts, and a slick mouth, that made the hairs on Thomas' neck bristle like a scared tarantulas, expecting her to be water boarded, or at least get a swift kick in the ass. His mother would just kinda grit her teeth, and try to get through the lesson. Little Irene would then tell her friends about how much she hated this, and her parents, and that, and how cute Thomas was. How her Dad and Mom are almost 10 years apart, and hey, it could work. Depends on your definition of work. Mr. Torrance, 45 years young, would probably agree, in his own interest of course. Thomas' Mother thought she saw him with someone no older than Thomas himself while she was at the local pub.

Thomas was helping his mother tutor one night, history, his favorite subject if he had to pick one. He tried a different approach to get to little Irene, tried to get her involved, sometimes that's all they needed. It was Black History Month, so they talked about Rosa Parks, and Thomas was excited to see that he knew who she was. He made an Outkast joke. She didn't get it. She was 15.

"I think she was dumb" little Irene finished.

"Uh huh, what?" The first part was Thomas' surprised laugh, she couldn't be serious.

"Why would she do that? She could just get shot. Poof. Dead."

"That's kinda the point. She stood up for what she believed in. She inspired millions."

"I wouldn't do it."

"Why not?" Genuinely interested.

"I don't want to get shot."

"She helped spur the civil rights movement, she changed the nation. You're telling me if someone was saying you're not good enough for a front seat on the bus, or the same water fountain, or the same school, you wouldn't stand up for it."

After thinking, but not very long, she was humoring him.

"No. Let someone else do it."

"What if everyone said that?"

"I don't know. I still wouldn't do it. Maybe I'd follow if someone else did, but the world is better now, don't have to worry about it."

Ignorance is bliss, and it's a grace Thomas wasn't blessed with. I guess she didn't know that in the 21st century women still get paid statically less than men. He told her. At first she said nuh uh, and he humored her with an uh huh, and told her to look it up on her fancy smart phone. She didn't take it out, and wouldn't until she sat back down with his mother at the table, texting her BFF Jill.

He just didn't get it.

He told his friends the story. They didn't seem very surprised. One even said that he just wants to keep his head down and work, pay the bills. Thomas had a mental image of a cartoon miner mindlessly picking away until it all caved in on top of him. Another, kinda shrugged, then said: Life sucks, then you die. Another told him it was The Illuminati, another Jewish Unions, another said it was the end times, and he should repent.

Was he the only sane one in the entire world? He had a sudden urge, that all that had been sacrificed; his friends sacrificed their lives...

No. It couldn't be.

He sat on the curb the night that man told him to repent. He remembered what he had to repent for.

The fire, the groaning and twisting metal, the screams.

When he laid down for sleep that night, he felt a sharp pain between his eyebrows, where the needle was now stuck.

No one listens. No one cares. No one wants to.

His tired eyelids fell closed,

Thump,

And he'd never have a pleasant dream again.

Thump.