Life With A Werewolf

I once saw a movie a few years back inside a theatre, one that had me laughing out loud in one particular scene. It wasn't especially funny, in fact the scene was tragic in its own way. It was about a man who enjoyed playing a clown succumbing to his most basic dark urges and embracing the villain that he deep down always felt he was. If you haven't guessed the movie I'm talking about, I'm not helping you. Not because I'm mean, but because movie studios have a lot more money for lawyers than I do, and are willing to sue you over the smallest things and, though I'm fairly certain I'd be okay, (they'll probably never see this tiny blog) I really don't want to be sued.

When the titular clown, with hands cuffed, casually put a lit cigarette in his mouth, singing between puffs about how “some people get their kicks, stomping on a dream”, and began chuckling about it, I couldn't hold the guffaws in. Again, I know it's not funny. However, the moment that I laughed was one born of pain, a final release of the things that had occurred and sending them out into the universe, once and for all, the trauma that I had been hiding from myself. Some people truly get their kicks stomping on a dream, and it was cathartic to hear someone acknowledge it.

My wife of about seven years took my last deployment to Afghanistan as an opportunity to run off with the twin meth heads she had started cheating on me with. Neither twin knew their own names most days, let alone hers they were so tweaked out. She took everything out of the house, even the damn light bulbs. Anyone in the military can tell you, you're gear is issued to you not given. So anything you have left behind you're going to have to replace. Thankfully I had most of my stuff with me on deployment, but still some of those things I did leave wasn't that cheap.

To add insult to injury, after I got home before I could go on leave to try and rebuild my life, I was T-boned at an intersection on post while I was in a Humvee. Don't day drink kids. If you do day drink, don't drive. If you do drive, don't “borrow” your buddie's Camaro. If you do borrow your buddie's Camaro, be sure you tell him you borrowed it. And if you decide to against all of that obvious advice, the only other piece I can give you is this: a V-6 Camaro is not going outrun the cops.

The injury ended my military career. Thankfully Crash, my werewolf friend had my back. Why do I call him my werewolf friend? Well, because he is about the biggest damn guy I know. That includes all the military guys I knew. His frame is the perfect size for a line backer. Tall, broad, with a ton of natural muscle that he barely has to work out to keep at all. A layer of fat does rest on that muscle, but he purposely keeps that there. Because, like I said, he's a damn werewolf.

He's got hazel eyes, a chinstrap style beard, short hair and a smile that constantly stays on his face. If you could take a Saint Bernard, turn them into a human being, that would be Crash. I trust him with my life, and up until I found out he was a werewolf I'd have trusted him with anything except a fist fight. He looks like the type you could push into almost anything. There's almost a permanent big dopey grin on his face, though he's smart as a whip and twice as crazy. It's easy to figure him for the type who could be easily fooled and pushed into anything. A large, fluffy doormat. Though he is laid back, you can only push him so far. Then his other side kicks in. After that, watch out.

Werewolf movies are a staple. American Werewolf in London, it's lesser liked sequel American Werewolf in Paris, The Howling series, yes all of them, Stephen King's Silver Bullet, All are staples around Halloween. In this house that lasts from after labor day until a day or two past All Saint's Day. These movies, which he loved to have watch parties for when we were both in college, was one of the reasons I've always called him a werewolf. However, it's not the reason I currently call him a werewolf.

A house that's within walking distance of a thick, old forest. An old beat up car that he keeps on the road cause it's durable and large enough to fit his considerable frame. He has these and other things about him because, he's a damn werewolf. I found out he was a werewolf after he retrieved/dragged me away from my military post after I was medically retired from service. I have a pension I receive for life, and a hip and back injury that makes it extremely difficult for me to do any real work that doesn't let me lay on my back for hours on end. So, the job I had then was to sit in my shitty apartment and drink.

The text messages flew back and forth. A lot of it, well I'm going to clean up for you cause unless you want to see cursing like a pissed off sailor with a massive hangover it won't be all that entertaining to see. However, it went something like this:

Crash: “Hey, bud how ya holding up?”

Jason (that's me. Sorry, I forgot to introduce myself.): “I'm doing okay. Me and my good friends Jack and Jamison are just having a private party here celebrating my escape from Uncle Sam.”

Crash: “It's been two days.”

Jason: “Yeah, I'm curious how long I can stay drunk until I physically can't drink anymore.”

Crash: “I'm leaving now. I'll be there in eight hours.”

Jason: “Bring beer.”

That's how the text conversation went. After tossing my phone on my ratty old mattress, I poured myself another tall glass of Crown and Coke, sat in front of the television, and began watching...well something. Some random Netflix show that involved magic or warlocks, or something. I don't know. I was too drunk to follow it most of the time, and too drunk to care. The alcohol didn't hold back the literal mold that was creeping in from the walls around the corners and from the small kitchenette about ten feet from where I slept, but it was keeping the spiritual darkness at bay. Or so I thought. When I was drunk the rough and tumble of the kids who lived down the hall didn't matter. The scents of other foods drifting in from the door ways down the darkened hallway with the stale, puke stained carpet didn't matter. The pain that radiated and reverberated through my back, and down my right leg, a pain that sometimes turned to tingling and numbness that left me barely able to stand didn't matter.

The fact that no one in the world gave half a damn that I was even alive didn't matter. None of those things mattered. The free wheeling spin of the room when I tipped off the edge of buzzed and dove headfirst off the cliff into wasted, that's what mattered. Not the scent of my own rot, the stench of my own decay, of the deep dive I was taking from what little will to live I actually had left into the slow suicide of alcohol poisoning.

My only memory is the door splintering open. Being dragged down the hallway over one shoulder, a bag of clothing over the other. And asking Crash why he was wearing a fur coat. That's what I remembered the most from all of it. “Cause, I'm a werewolf,” he said casually. “Remember? I told you.”

After that, memory gets fuzzy. Probably cause that's when I passed out. I awoke, somewhere across state lines, halfway back to his place in the midwest. He still had half a muzzle, but the fur was mostly gone. “wha?” I asked.

“You're awake,” he replied cheerily. “I thought you were going to sleep another four hours.”

“Pull over!” The contents of my stomach, mostly liquor and the remains of whatever stale bag of Cheetos I had bought at the liquor store, was revolting. It wasn't going to stay confined quietly to my stomach and instead was going to rebel and free itself of its fleshy prison, mainly by spraying over anything insight. The old Cadillac jerked towards the shoulder of the road, and I threw open the door, spewing rainbow colored foul liquid all over the grass.

“What the hell,” I cried, climbing back into the car.

“Here,” Crash said, tossing me an old towel from behind the seat. I recognized it as being one of my better ones at one point. I cleaned the filth off as best as I could, then attempted to put it back, “Oh no,” he cried, pointing a clawed finger out the door. I tossed the towel on top of the puke by the road side.

“Where the hell are we,” I gasped. The cabin of the car wasn't quite spinning yet, but it felt like it might at any moment. A vice was on my skull, pressing it's way inward.

“Halfway through Kentucky,” he said. “About four hours away from home.”

I looked over at him. He had two ears that were stuck halfway up on his skull. They seemed to be folded backwards, like a canine would do for a human it was concerned about. “where's my liquor?”

His lip pulled up in a snarl. “Left it. Back in the apartment with most of your crap,” he replied.

“What the hell, man,” I shouted. Or tried to. It felt like someone was stabbing me through the temple with each forced syllable.

“Jason,” he said, “You had one TV, which was too big for the car, a bundle of clothing, a mattress on the floor that was a bio hazard, and a box of cheerios that your roaches at most of. The only other thing you had was your wedding photo, which you barfed on at some point and wrote 'bitch' over the top of it.”

She really had taken everything. Him saying that suddenly brought all of that back. The box of items I had from when dad had died, his wedding ring, the belt buckle, a decorative knife he had got from his time in the army, it was all gone. Given to Mitch or Hitch or whatever the toxic twins names are. The dog, Larry, she gave away to a newly married Lieutenant and his wife that was moving two doors down from me on the on post housing. Larry was used to the neighborhood and the kids there. Each yard was perfectly square and manicured by the housing authority there. The buildings perfectly cookie cutter, built to be in style of the decade they had been built in, which looked to me was closer to bell bottoms than they were to iPhones.

All of those items that seem to be useless, those things that you don't know you want to keep forever until they're gone, and the memory that was tied to them is gone as well. That piece of your heart and soul that had been tied to it stolen with the rest of yourself.

I looked over at Crash. His ears still looked more wolf than human. His face had that short muzzle on it. Some more fur had fallen off. I didn't have a frame of reference for it, but I got the distinct impression he was subtly shifting back human.

“What now,” I asked. “You gonna eat me or somethin?”

He turned and looked at me. The old gold Cadillac puttered down the road. His eyebrow as arched in a “really?” tone. “No. I'm not going to bite you either. Wouldn't do you any good anyway. Either you're born a werewolf, or you're born human. Bites just hurt, they won't change ya.”

“So, why are you doing this,” I asked.

“Because,” he said, his gaze shifting back towards the road. “I had to get you out of there. I know what it's like to not have a pack. To be a lone wolf against the world.”

The tear on his slowly changing muzzle didn't go unnoticed. But I also knew he was right. He had moved, his parents were two states away. That large house he had he lived in alone for the longest time. The last two relationships that looked like they would last simply didn't. Both women turned out to be so crazy that even Charles Manson would tell them to calm down.

“Family is almost everything. It makes up and makes up for so much in your life. Without it, you're just...” he stopped.

“Empty and alone.” I finished for him.

He nodded. “Exactly. Empty and alone. Loneliness kills. It just does it so slowly that you don't even notice until you're ready to die.”

The number of suicides ran through my head. The veterans who saw far more action than I did and survived to only come home to a world that no longer made sense to them, a world that both praised and shunned them. Twenty two a day indeed. The number of others, who didn't serve at all. Children who were prepared for life after high school or college in everything except emotionally and mentally. They give you the knowledge, the keys to success in life. Hand you everything you need to know on what to do after you do everything for them except what really matters: how to handle life itself. You can perform your job, have a big beautiful car, have the latest cell phone, tablet, game system, all of it and at the end of the day you still feel cold, empty, alone. None of these things can replace a family. Can replace love.

“Wait till you meet the rest of the gang,” Crash grinned. His human grin was mostly back know. “You're going to love them, I just know it.”

“Wait, how long am I going to be here,” I asked.

He shrugged. “As long as you need, really. You're my pack. I told you that a long time ago. You're my pack, and I will protect you.”

“So, if I find a job two weeks from now in Florida for example,” I reply, arching an eyebrow.

“I'll help you pack. You're not being held prisoner.” He said. “You're my packmate, not my captive.”

The weight of his statement landed on me hard for a moment. I took a deep breath and turned my attention outside the window. Night had nearly passed. Red and gold rays of sunlight was slowly rising in front of us. We were retreating from a darkness that was quickly losing it's battle with the day. “You're serious.” I said.

“You're my pack,” a heavy clawed hand landed on my shoulder. “You talked to me all that time when I was alone, when Liz left me in the lurch. I had this huge house that no one wanted to be in with me. I had just started that job for the county.”

I nodded. Lots of late night texts and phone calls. Lots of early work calls where I felt drained of all energy because I had spent the wee hours of the previous night talking to him. Working with him to pull him through the pain.

“You're my pack. You remember when that Darlene left me and I was ready to curl up and die? What did you tell me. 'Family doesn't always mean blood.' You remember that right? You said you was my brother from another mother. You remember? I made a bond with you that day and I meant it. Until the day I die, whatever you need I will be there for you.”

Family can take many shapes, sizes and forms. A living, breathing bond between beings who love and protect each other. I lost my lover and friend to two idiots with a taste for meth and insanity. However, there was another place being held for me. This time a pack. I sighed turning back towards him. I didn't hide the water in my voice. “Thank you.” I said.

“Just so you know,” he replied. “You're being dropped into the life of a werewolf. Things won't be the same from now on. Life is only going to get crazier from here on out.”

A chuckle rose in my throat. I bit it in half, part of it spilling across my words. “Can't be worse than what my life was before. I think I'll be fine.”

The road stretched and dipped over the rising hills as we drove on. The trees pushed and pulled against the two lane black top as we made our way towards the homestead, the place I would soon call home with my friend pressing into the rising light. Suddenly at that moment, life felt it would be okay.

No, that ain't right. It wasn't with my friend. It was with my family. My packmate. Life may not be how I expected it to go, but I had family with me. Not a family of blood or marriage, but a family none the less. And that's all you could really ask for.

         When I first saw Crashes house, it reminded me of a senile old man. The top floor was smaller than the bottom, almost having a tacked-on look. The front porch sat over to the side of the house. It sat on a brick foundation, that had ancient cracks in some spots, but oddly still seemed sturdy. Almost as if the house itself had arthritis, but despite that was still standing strong.

          Originally built in the nineteenth century, the original house had a fire place, wood floors, and eclectic updates that although must have looked stunning and trendy in the decades they were installed, just added to the other eclectic updates from the decades to give the entire place a weird, mad scientist sort of feel. Sixties wood paneling in some rooms with seventies paint schemes covering them. Drop ceilings that have enough insulation to insulate two whole other houses. A basement that regularly floods with an inch or two of water in a hard rain. A second floor that was added over a century ago, with strangely sized rooms and doors that meet no actual standards or fire codes in current existence. And of course, the odd furniture.

          One thing about my werewolf friend is that he collects odd furniture the same manner some people collect pets. Old things that are sometimes worth very little money will be shoved in corners and beloved and valued, until the gang all get together and convince Crash to get rid of the scratched-up piece of junk. Cause to him they're beautiful pieces with a story. To the rest of us, they're crap that's mostly useful for collecting junk mail and dust.

          An old tube radio from the forties sits in one corner, undisturbed (just in need of new tubes, he swears). Near it is a dining room table that must have been beautiful in the seventies and a chandelier that must have been bought at an Ikea or something for twenty bucks ten or fifteen years ago. The kitchen table might at one time have been stolen from a diner somewhere in the fifties. The bright yellow vinyl chairs accented the ketchup and mustard paint scheme in the kitchen. The living room still has a Louis XIV style couch with a wing back chair near it. A fireplace of course that doesn't work anymore (the chimney was knocked in by a previous owner when they redid the roof) and a mantle with a couple clocks that could work, a gun that's only decorative and a weird wooden piece that I to this day can't decide if it's supposed to be a diorama, a mural, a painting, or just an experiment to see if people really will buy anything if you write the word “exclusive” on it.

          Unpacking went easy. I didn't own much. The mattress was left in the crappy apartment (good riddance). So was the busted television and of course my deposit (sorry about the door). All I had was a small bag of clothing and what items I carried on my person: a wallet, a cell phone. My last car went to my crazy ex in the divorce and I didn't have the drive to purchase another one. Say what you want about Uber, but at least I could get to places I needed to regularly, like the liquor store.

          My other option for transportation was what was affectionately known in the military as “rubberized troop movers.” In other words, my own two feet. It's difficult to think about the need for transportation when you're doing your best to spend what you feel will be the rest of your days in a thick alcoholic haze so you won't feel the end when it comes.

          As I stood in the kitchen, taking the strange colors and counter tops in, Crash clapped me on the shoulder. “Come on,” he said, “let's go meet the rest of the pack.”

          We moved into the living room, and Crash pointed at a guy sitting on an ancient couch. He had a PlayStation controller in his hand and a headset on his ears. Crash gave him a wave, which he returned. Then he proceeded to shout at someone through the microphone. “No, no, no, no!” He began laughing.

          “That's Zack,” Crash said. “He's a gamer.”

          I nodded. On the television bright colorful characters dodged and raced over the insane obstacles. Some fell through holes to their doom, only to be resurrected in bright sparkly lights at the start to try the course over again. “Huh,” I said watching the spectacle for a moment.

          “Zack can be a bit loud at times. If he gets too loud, just tell him to keep it down.” Behind me was a thin guy with long hair. He was standing in a hallway near the living room. Behind him stood another man. He had slightly curlier hair, a bigger build than him but not quite as big as mine, and a warm smile. “Hi,” I said, holding my hand out. “Jason.”

          “Kris,” the skinny guy said, shaking it a couple times. The guy behind him attempted to give me a hug instead, sandwiching Kris between us. “Hello,” I replied awkwardly, returning the strange hug that got Kris caught in the middle. “That's Sean,” Kris growled, “and damn it, let me go!”

          Sean dropped the hug with a chuckle. Kris turned and glared at him, and I felt a little perplexed at what just went down. Crash smiled at the display, “Come on” he said. Kris glared at him, then grabbed Sean and stormed back upstairs. “They share the big room upstairs,” he said, pulling me towards a room that I can only describe as....different.

          There was an old sewing machine sitting in a corner. In another corner was a combination desk, bookshelf thing that would be covered with knickknacks and clutter that I would soon start to collect. Most of the walls in the room was white, save one. The far wall, that sat on the opposite side of the bed had wall paper covering it, depicting a scene that can only be described as Tuscany, Italy in the spring. Bright vibrant colors and flowers peppered a backdrop of green bushes and trees. Orange sunlight of a slowly fading sun painted red orangish rays of light flowing through it all. It was warm, vibrant to see. Healing, almost in a way.

          “This,” he said with a wave of an arm. “It's your room.”

          All I can say is that, yes it was quite different. Apparently, the old sewing machine table was supposed to be a table. I was able to put a new television on it as well as a few other things. A dresser sat by the door that began to slowly fill up with items I would start taking to try and help my hip and back pain. Items that I would start taking after I kicked my alcohol habit.

          The first few days was the traditional getting settled in time period. I found out that Zack wasn't the typical gamer type that I was used to. He liked anime, but didn't have any waifu fantasies or anything. Yes, he had gaming stuff, PlayStation, Xbox favorite games and the like. But he also worked a regular shift at a plastics factory down town. He was their most reliable worker, and in talks of being promoted to management. He'd have this thing where he wouldn't clean for a while, then go on a tear, washing laundry all day and sweeping and dusting everything in his room.

          He also enjoyed some anime. I came from an older generation of anime lovers: enjoying Akira and Fist of the North Star and Cowboy Bebop. I found out that he was really into One Piece, and Demon Slayer. We'd later spend hours talking about different anime's and characters, each teaching the other about their generation.

          Sean and Kris, I found out were into cars. Modifying, tweaking. Sure, they liked getting horse power out of their vehicles, but they also liked getting the best possible devices wired into them, and many times it ended up looking better than OEM. I'd later have conversations with Kris and Sean in the garage, with Sean handing Kris tools and watching over his shoulder at different things he was doing, suggesting the occasional change or diving in and helping on this or that.

          It wasn't uncommon to find Crash coming in at odd hours. Sometimes he'd work well into the night, come home covered in dirt, full of stress and anger. Other times, he'd work a typical nine to five job. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he worked soldier's hours. Being called in at any sort of time day and night, working sixty plus hours a week on a regular basis, coming home stressed and angry about one thing or another. I knew he worked for the county and not country though and at the time I admit I was just a little timid to ask. I figured it wasn't my business, really unless he told me.

          “You kind of look like a dog,” I joked one afternoon. He was almost covered head to toe in dirt. He wore a buttoned up shirt over an old pair of overalls, something he did regularly when he went to work doing whatever it is that he does. “Well, I try not to shed on the furniture,” he replied with a half grin. From there, we talked about dinner or something and went our separate ways. I didn't really think anything of my bad joke.

          The next morning, I came into the kitchen to grab a cup of coffee and Crash was standing by the stove. He held in his hand a red bag of dog food. A happy canine sat in front of a grassy field, obviously over joyed at the attention it was getting from the photographer. He reached in, grabbed a handful of brown and tan pellets, and began to munch on them.

          My stomach did a couple flips. I walked around him, trying to ignore him as I began to prepare my coffee. After all, the worst thing you could do is give someone like that attention. Munch, Munch, Munch, Munch. The crunching was getting louder. Piercing through the intense concentration I was trying to give the coffee maker. Finally, I turned, eyeing the bag suspiciously. “Are you eating dog food?”

          “Yeah,” he said. “Breakfast. A dog's gotta keep his energy up after all. Want some?”

          “I'm good,” I replied, rolling my eyes a bit.

          “Oh, that's my brand,” Zack said, over my shoulder, appearing in the other door in the small kitchen. He walked through and grabbed a handful out of the bag and began popping the pellets in his mouth one at a time as he walked back to the living room.

          “Huh,” I said. “Well, uh,”

          “Come on, you got to try this. If you add milk to it, it tastes great,” he grinned.

          My stomach did about three flips thinking about it. Dog food in milk? Soggy beef bone tasting crap in milk? Ewwww.... “Like cereal,” I asked, giving a face.

          “Yeah,” Crash smiled, almost laughing now, “Just like cereal.”

          “Come on, take a bite,” he stood up and held the small brown and tan pellets up to my face. A faint scent of peanut butter and chocolate rose up from his hand to me. “Wait a minute,” I reached forward and grabbed the bag from Crash.

          “Hey,” he said, trying to pull it back, “that's my breakfast!”

          I gripped the bottom of the bag in my left hand, and tugged. The dog food bag fell to the floor. In Crash's hand he held a box of Reese's Puffs cereal. Crash began laughing. “You ass,” I said, then started laughing too. “You do realize, I'm going to get you back for this, right?”

          He laughed, grabbing another handful of Reese's puffs. “Hey, you're the one who called me a dog, remember?”

          I had been getting to know everyone slowly, but it was with that joke that I officially felt part of the family. The 'pack' as it were. It's strange how little things like this can make you feel at home. A lame joke, an old family recipe cooked by a roommate, a small gift with your name on it on your birthday or at Christmas. Grand gestures mean so much, but the small ones fill the gaps and provide the coat of paint we need to add color to our lives, leaving us with the smiles and hugs that are so necessary to living. I'm glad for the practical joke, but Crash, I still will get you back. Remember, revenge is a dish best served with pimento beans and onions.

       Independence is a very important thing, especially to someone like me. You have to be able to feel as if you can do things on your own. It doesn't matter if it's as simple as changing your oil or repairing your home. You must be able to do those minor things, or else in the back of your mind during the major problems you'll have that little voice asking you 'can you really handle this?'

          I've had that voice far too often for the past several months. After my ex left and pretty much took everything I had, what I really had left was a photograph, half a closet of clothing, and some military gear. That was it. I didn't even have all of the gear I was issued, (which was a lot of fun when I went to sign out for the final time, let me tell you.) I had nothing left to my name. No family left that honestly cared if I lived or died. I had Al Cohol, Jim Beam, Jack Daniels and a whole lot of time to party with those three friends of mine who were determined to kill me slowly. Ozzy is right – suicide is slow with liquor.

          But Crash dragged me out of that place, away from those things. For the first few days he was keeping a pretty close eye on me. I could drink with him, a beer on occasion in the evenings. That was it. No liquor. No wine. Nothing stronger than beer and no more than two on a Friday with him.

          If you're a drunk like me two beers pretty much will just piss you off. It won't be enough to even get you relaxed, let alone buzzed. It's just enough to remind you of the drug you used to enjoy and the good friends you used to party with. However, I thought it was in my best sense of self-preservation to not tell Crash no. After all, he was my friend of several years at this point, but he was still a werewolf. Which was a mysterious and dangerous creature of an origin that still remains unknown to me.

          Given that I couldn't drink, had to ride with Crash or Kris if I wanted to go somewhere (Zack had a license but barely drove anywhere), life was getting a little difficult. Sure, working was just a bit out of the question. But I still wanted to feel the road beneath my tires, roll down a window feel the wind blowing in my hair. Blast my favorite songs, sing along at the top of my lungs as I cruised down empty roads and highways. Taste the freedom, as it were.

          Freedom is a key ingredient in independence. You must be free to succeed or fall flat on your face in life. It's the act of picking yourself back up that teaches you independence, that teaches you how to be alone in this cold, harsh world. Those where things that I had lost. When my ex took everything, and I got injured I lost just about every ounce of freedom I had. Which caused me to lose my independence. Which caused me to lose my self-respect. It was about damn time to get some of those things back.

          Crash was the one who brought it up first on a Friday night. We were sitting in the back of his yard, the trees pushing forward onto the property, casting pitch black shadows in the blackest of night. Occasionally wind would blow through these trees, causing these shadows to dance in the dim moonlight and orange light of our bon fire, making it look as if the very dark itself had come alive.

          His large frame pressed out against a small lawn chair. It creaked and groaned in complaint with each movement and adjustment he made, but it never broke. He had a beer in one hand, sipping it, playing with his cell phone in the other. “I think it's about time we got you a car.” He said, before taking a sip.

          ”I've been meaning to ask you that.” I replied. I had already met my “two beer” limit, the two casualties of our little party sitting by my chair, their wrinkled and crumbled bodies reflecting glinting light from the bonfire. “I think it's time I got one.”

          ”Yes, would let you get to your appointments,” he replied.

          I had a VA appointment two towns over. It was the closest one, and would take over an hour to get there. But I had to get there. Kris with his job wasn't able to take me. That would only leave Crash, who tried not to grumble, but I could tell riding me around everywhere was starting to get to him.

          ”What kind of cars do you like?” He asked, stabbing and swiping at his phone with his finger.

          With half a shrug, I replied, “I don't know. Mustangs and Chargers, I guess.”

          He chuckled. “You got a mullet under there somewhere you hiding?”

          I smiled. “Yeah, it's in my closet next to the silver bullets.”

          ”Funny, ha. Jokes on you, I happen to like silver,” he grinned.

          We went back and forth as he scrolled over Facebook marketplace and Craigslist and other places looking for vehicles. Old Lincoln Towncar? No, I said, I may have a bad hip and back but I wasn't that old. A Dodge diplomat from the eighties? My only response was to tell him that I thought we were friends. Finally, his whole face lit up.

          ”I got it! I got it!” he shouted.

          ”What is it?” I asked.

         ”Do you trust me?” His face was complete innocence and trustworthiness. Two ingredients that I would come to learn in a werewolf meant that they were up to mischief.

          ”I guess,” I sighed.

          ”Good!” he said. Then began typing furiously on the phone, communicating with someone back and forth. I don't know what was being negotiated. I do know that the original price was three thousand, but he was able to whittle it down to around two grand. For something. I didn't know what though. All weekend I couldn't get much out of him about it, other than “You'll grow to love it, I'm sure.”

          ”Grow to love it,” I said.

          ”Yes, I know you will.” He said with a grin.

          ”So, won't love it in the beginning,” I frowned.

          He would only smile and not say anything more. The teasing went back and forth for a while, with me wondering what sort of strange contraption that was supposed to be a car he came up with. Would it be that strange Lebaron from the eighties, a car that would need as much lemon Pledge as it needed wax? Or could it have been the Suzuki Samurai? A vehicle that can go almost anywhere, and almost reach speeds as fast as sixty miles an hour with enough of a downhill slant and a good tail wind.

          A thousand possibilities ran through my mind until Monday rolled around and my appointment. The trip through the hills and up to the interstate was made in relative silence. The quiet chatter of the morning DJs and the inane sounds of pop music drifted up through the Cadillac's speakers as we rode our way up from the woods into civilization.

          Once traffic thickened up, he pulled off the interstate onto a small side road that lead us right to the VA, where I would begin my appointment and he disappeared, grinning. I had given him a check earlier for twenty two hundred dollars. I deeply regretted it, but figured, it's Crash. Either I was going to get the Charger I wanted, or it was going to be a weird Jeep or Cadillac that they only made for a year or two. Either way it would be a unique and awesome car.

          So, I went inside, went through my appointment, the entire ordeal taking about a half hour. When I began to leave, Crash stood up in the lobby, grin on his face. “Come on,” he said, “I got to show this to you.”

          Sitting in the parking lot of the strip mall that the VA resided in was a 1993 Mercury Topaz. It was gold. Or at least I think it was gold. The color more closely resembled what someone blind who had never seen color before might have thought gold looked like if it had been described to them. There wasn't any rust on it, so it had that, but the rear bumper had a sticker stating “don't blame me, I didn't vote for Hillary” on the back. There was numerous bumps and dips in the front and back, obvious evidence of an elderly owner who held on to it and drove it a bit more than they honestly should have.

          ”What do you think?” He asked, grinning wider.

          ”If you paid more than two for this, I got ripped off.” I growled.

          ”Two thousand,” he replied as I opened the door.

          I watched the automatic seat belt move, rolling quickly forward in the car towards the front. I knew once I sat down it would attack me with machine like speed and precision. “I hope you mean two dollars, and not two thousand dollars,” I mumbled, looking inside.

          The interior looked immaculate and old. I half expected to see a Pearl Jam CD shoved somewhere under a floor mat or something. It had old car scent. That scent that said it was sitting somewhere forgotten for far too long.

          ”It's perfect!” he beamed. I could see that the mileage was sitting around seventy thousand miles. Grandma's garage kept church car it looked like.

          ”It's crap,” I grumbled.

          The conversation was a little tense on the way back to Crash's car. He had taken the Topaz out for a “test drive” that had ended in the VA parking lot, with me driving back through the town side roads and neighborhoods to the small house that the car came from. It wasn't a rich neighborhood but a safe one, with power lines running two and fro above cracked streets. The trees were old and thick, providing ample shade above the old roads. Some of the fences were rusty, but every yard was well kept. It was a neighborhood for starting out and a neighborhood for finishing up, with some yards littered with brightly colored plastic toys and others with plants and gardens.

          In front of an ancient looking brick home, sat Crash's Caddy. We pulled up to it, and he paused a moment.

          ”Look,” he sighed, staring at his car. “I know you want something sporty. I didn't give him a dime yet. If you don't want this car, I'll give you your money back. But just hear me out.”

          ”I'm listening,” I said.

          ”This car isn't your permanent car. It's the first car you get that's dependable. The one you can drive to places while your fun car is being fixed. That car we'll get next. That one you save up for so you can get the exact one you want. So you'll have two cars, one you take to the grocery store, and one you take to the track.” He spoke.

          I nodded in reply. “Makes sense. This car really that reliable?”

          ”Well, this model I'd usually laugh and say no. But that old woman who owned it,” he shook his head slowly while he spoke, “she was a bit eccentric. Every single thing on it she would get changed and replaced. Yearly coolant flushes. Yearly transmission fluid changes. Yearly power steering fluid changes. His kids never understood it, but she would tell them 'a vehicle needs taken care of' or some crap like that.”

          ”So, what does it need,” I asked. After all, used cars always need something. When you buy used, you're buying someone else's problems, after all.

          ”Tires. And a battery, I think. That's it.” He looked back at me, a strange earnestness in his face. “I asked if you trusted me,” he said, “this is what I meant. I'm telling you, it's not flashy, it's not beautiful but it will last you three or four years easy with no troubles.”

          So, that's how I became the proud owner of a Mercury Topaz. I didn't like it at first, but it slowly began to grow on me. It wasn't the car you wanted for cars n coffee or for meet ups of any kind. But it was the reliable little engine that just couldn't quit on me. The slow grocery getter that got me to the store, to my appointments and back again with no problems. It was the one, when a little over a year later, I finally had the cash and drove up to the Dealership to buy my slightly used Charger. It was the one Crash drove home when I drove that Charger back to my house, a huge smile on my face.

          It's the car I use for everything except driving fast. It's been dead reliable. So, agreeing with that old lady, yearly I change the transmission fluid, the power steering fluid, the brake fluid, and of course every three thousand miles or so I change the oil. This little car takes care of me. So, I take care of her.

          After all, it’s freedom and independence she’s given me.  Why wouldn’t I take some extra care looking after my Gem?  I’ve gained both of those things in a package that others would over look.  Some may even sneer or scoff at me for embracing.  But, I have a vehicle that maybe ugly, maybe old, maybe slow, is always reliable.  One that when everything is added up costs far less than a Tesla, far less than a Maserati, and is actually far cheaper to keep than both of those cars put together.  In the end, that’s what matters.  Independence.  Freedom.  The ability to roll down the window, let the wind blow through my hair, sing old rock songs at the top of my offkey voice.  That independence is what’s important, not the wrapper it came in.

          Freedom and independence.  Two things you wouldn’t think would be all that important to living, until you’ve lost both.  I lost mine when I lost my spouse.  When I was forced into that small, crummy apartment.  When I lost my military career thanks to that drunk driver.  Everything had been taken from me.  Sitting behind the wheel of my car gave me more than just a little bit of that back.  I may not be leaving people in the dust at red lights, but I know if I sit behind the wheel of that car tomorrow, I can literally take it anywhere, drive it to the tip of Baja California if I wanted, and it would make it.  That’s what freedom is.  And thanks to Crash, I actually have some of it back.

          But, yes the car is still ugly.