Where There is Wailing and Gnashing of Teeth

Condensing it Down

Sixty-two and climbing, beaches already thick with a heavy blend of locals and tourists, Gus chose to keep the windows down after his Frosty pit stop. First one slurped down to dredges by the time he made that last turn into the driveway, he eyed the second and weighed the risk of brain freeze versus the chance his pal would even acknowledge the treat or, worse, hork out a desperately needed supply of calories on sight of the melting chocolate. Too late to ruminate further when Henry pushed through the screen door to wave him inside – rather more frantic than previous visits – this week had been hard on them all but the sudden agitation in the older man had Gus pulling his cell in case a call for an ambulance was in order.

First thought as his feet landed the deck after a jog up the stairs was to ponder who else had been invited. Shawn not much given to visitors of any kind or quantity – more not remotely merrier these days – the loud and rambling prattle struck a nerve straight through the spinal chord as voice recognition obliterated the indignation that some unknown interloper was holding his pal a conversational hostage.

Realization immediately overtaken by actualization as said vocalist poured into the room. One shoe on one foot bare; other sneaker dangling by the laces from his hand, Shawn grinned wide and spread his arms.

“Gus! Oh, is that for me??” Grabby fingers snatched the melting milkshake – downing a third in two giant swallows only for the idiot to wail and clutch his forehead – paper cup slamming down on the counter and spattering chocolaty droplets across the white cupboards. “Ahhhhh – crap, crap, crap..!”

Subjected to the fate Gus had barely avoided, the surge of ice-driven pain faded soon enough as Shawn took a second, more conservative, suck at his straw.

Seconds with only the sound of blissful Frosty gulping, Gus lifted his brows towards Henry where he loomed near the stairs. Shoulders heaved up in reply to Gus's head bob – neither one of them managing anything conversational – Gus had never managed to work out silent communication with the man in the way he had with the younger Spencer. Shawn, brilliant in most things, insisted that he'd developed a mental block when it came to silent communication from his old man. Knowing bullshit when he heard it, Gus admitted that he rarely could interpret the various shrugs, blinks, and finger waggles employed by Senior.

Treat finished, Shawn pitched the empty cup back towards its giver – dredges spraying out as the edge of the cup struck still folded wrists – sputtering way-laid by a beatific smile so charming and simple it nearly triggered waterworks. Gus only just held back the deluge after that delighted response. “Thanks, Gus!”

And then the babble resumed – words torrential and endless – pouring out a backlog of thoughts non-stop, like he'd built up a lexicon behind a dam until the stone and mud couldn't hold it back any longer. It just poured out. And like a tsunami, it had no structure beyond the heaping waves. Like every conversation he'd buried in the last three and a half months was suddenly gushing out just like those monstrous waves. There was no sense of topic – almost mundane in observation yet peppered with the intensity of detail drummed into the boy since childhood.

“...way the sand filled up Lassie's shoes, Gus! Dad, you remember when you forced me on that death march when I was five? I ended up with sand all the way to my armpits; not to mention other noteworthy crevices along the way...”

Ditching subtly, as if such a thing ever could exist amidst this pair, Gus sidled up to Henry whilst nodding towards the man's chattering offspring.