Instruments of Redemption

Fort Tate Morgan

Fort Tate Morgan served as the ideal meeting place. Like any good fort or monument, the survival shelter's name belonged to the dead. Tate Morgan had a mean streak at Brown Park Middle School, leaving him friendless by freshman year. Son of a crack addict and a farmer, the former died and the latter gave too much freedom to an unwanted burden. Tate ran and ran, hoping to be chased. No one ever did. So, he built a survival shelter deep in the woods off his father's property. Angelo and I discovered it a few months after Tate hanged himself.

At first, we weren't sure what we'd found. A pile of sticks leaned up against a log fixed between two trees, a hole filled with charred wood, and two stumps, one never used. After some poking around we also stumbled upon an old, steel ammunition case full of cheap nudie magazines and a few rough drafts of Tate's suicide note. In tribute to him, Angelo and I christened the lean-to in the name of Tate Morgan. Our impromptu ceremony consisted of knocking down a six-pack, smoking cigarettes, and reading letters of the dead.

"To the few it concerns," I began, from the bottom paper of the stack. "My heartless father said I'm lucky to be alive, given who my mother was and the fact I nearly choked to death on my umbilical cord. But here I am, returning to the fateful day life gave me a second chance. Ironic how I'll be leaving the way I almost left sixteen years ago. Second chances are for suckers... the rest is indecipherable."

Angelo raised his beer to mine. "To second chances."

I clinked my bottle with his before we both took a swig. Then Angelo pulled out the next sheet to read. We continued like that, back and forth, over a crackling fire in the dying night. By the end of the pile, I had a nice buzz and a symphony of bugs were pulsing all around us. That's when Angelo finally stood and raised his glass to the horizontal log between the two trees.

"To Tate Morgan, whose candid words, moments from death, reveal to us the true meaning of life," he said.

"Which is?" I asked.

But Angelo, in preparation of the question, raised the last note in his other hand. "His final letter." He unfolded the piece of paper, cleared his throat, and began. "I looked everywhere for happiness. All the usual vices. Maybe, I thought, my mom died chasing something worthwhile. But through countless hours of research and a little bit of experimenting, the brief highs of vice never last. In fact, when the high ends, the pain only gets worse. What a beautiful paradox. Happiness comes equipped with pain. The two need each other to exist. Even love comes equipped with loss and heartbreak. So, I've decided there's no hope. No hope for me or anyone else. The world wants us to suffer. But I'm done with suffering. I'm done searching for relief. Because in the end, I'll still find the same disappointment my parents found on a pregnancy test."

Neither of us spoke. Even the bugs participated in our moment of silence. The escalating hopelessness in Tate's letters had climaxed to complete desperation. The kid with ragged gym clothes, who no one wanted to partner with in chemistry, had resorted to trying anything to cure his pain. If only we'd known.

"To disappointment," said Angelo.

I stood off my stump and raised my glass to the support beam. "To Fort Tate Morgan."

Angelo smiled and nodded his approval at my toast. We clinked the beam together before downing our beers. The christening official, Angelo and I spent the remainder of the evening paging through the magazines. While vice failed Tate, we fell far behind him in wisdom. The following years, the fort became the home of many escapes and many more close calls. Tate went to the fort to find meaning, while we went there to escape it.

Senior year, as school ended, Angelo and I plotted a return to the fort. Our friendship endured a metamorphosis that year. Pain did not solely belong to the Tate Morgan's. It visited everyone in due time. Angelo and I didn't realize how lucky we'd been growing up. The world, for so long, was at our fingertips. We reached into the pool of life so often, we never thought something within would come to the surface and bite.