Intentions

April 22, 2023 - 9:23PM

[[Opening: You find a document. You skim it. And this is what you see.

"My name is Jackson Ray Smith. I was murdered by a narcissist, and this is how I died. Please use this note as evidence to his character. And please, please never let him do this to anyone else.

I declare under penalty of perjury in recognition of the laws of the state of Tennessee that every iota of the above information is true and correct, and that this declaration has been signed at will on August 15, 2023."]]

I put my white, 2018 Nissan Rogue in park.

Checking my hair in the rearview mirror, I hear my phone begin to buzz on the dash.

Probably Shelbie, I think to myself and continue to investigate my sparkling, blue irises one last time. I straighten the little annoying Superman curl at the tip of my forehead that's been bugging me for as long as I can remember, and I give it one last pat for security.

The phone still buzzes, skittering across the dash when I reach for it. And it almost makes a dive for the floorboard when I manage to catch it.

I answer. "Hey, what's up?" Opening my car door with the other hand, I pat my pockets to make sure I've got my keys and wallet ready to go.

Agitated, B yells, "Where the hell are you?"

"I literally just pulled up. You'll see me in like two minutes. Chill." I slam the car door and head across the square's massive roundabout. The Raging Stallion's red neon sign shines bright against the rustic night sky. And I can already see some of the regulars spilling out the front doors.

"What's taking you so long?" she spouts through a slight lisp.

"I see the door right in front of me. Will you please calm down? It's not life or death." I pick up my pace and almost get side-swiped from the right. "Jesus!"

"What?" Panic fills her voice. "What happened?"

"I almost got hit."

"Stop being dramatic." There's a pause, and the background noise drops in volume.

"Tarah is asking about you. And Deb has already started dancing. And I'm pretty sure Mandy has found a bartender she's trying to take home tonight - or to get him to take her home tonight?

I don't know. We keep losing her."

"Okay, well, I'm gonna stop and get a drink at the bar near the front. Just meet me there."

"Alright." She hangs up.

Exasperation and excitement overtakes me as I try to calculate how long it's been since I last saw this group of friends. Eleven years? Can't be. But it's been eleven whole years, and then I smile, thinking back to graduation night.

Shuffling past the men in cowboy boots, regaled in their recently pressed Buckle jeans, and varying, multi-colored plaid flannels on the sidewalk, I bump into a country bumpkin who obviously pre-gamed for her twenty-first birthday a little too hard tonight.

"Excuse me, sorry," I say, push toward the door just as she straightens up, giggles, and vomits on the sidewalk.

The energy inside the venue isn't much better than the ongoing chaos outside. As soon as I walk through the open-air double doorway and spot Mike, the chubby, neck-bearded security guard sitting on a stool too small for his width - with his arms perpetually folded - I'm hit by the blast of Shania Twain's "Man! I Feel Like A Woman," which had faintly made its lyrical way out onto the streets for the evening.

"ID?" He grimaces, trying to smile, revealing his third chin.

I pull out my wallet, hand him my ID, and say, "Sup, Big Mike? How's the new venue?"