Reunion In A Restaurant In Michigan

Reunion In The Desert

Alfred POV

Three years ago, Ivan and I broke up.

We were both bringing the worst out in each other. I was reckless and endangering myself, he was worried for me and acting very controlling. Long story short, we had a very ugly fight at midnight when we were walking at night. I was drunk off my ass. He was in a very irritable mood.

We shouted at each other. He held my arm in a vice-like grip that left bruises. I slapped him hard enough to leave a mark. The look on his face when he flinched and stumbled back haunted my dreams for months afterwards. I'd forgotten in that moment, that Ivan had grown up being slapped and hit.

That's when he yelled with unbridled rage, "FUCK OFF!"

And I yelled back, "FIND SOMEWHERE ELSE TO SLEEP!"

Ivan stormed off into the night. I flipped him off and stumbled away, fists clenched, determined to have fun. I was finally enjoying the freedom I was denied since 10th grade. Why couldn't Ivan understand that?

He left belongings in the apartment, even with his meticulous escape. A few shirts, a hair comb, a wooden cross he prayed with in the mornings, before bed, and when tornado warnings went off. It had slipped my notice, but he hadn't picked up the worn little thing in weeks.

I called him over and over again for a week, every single one going to voicemail. It was twenty voicemails before I realized he was never calling me back.

The night I drove to Vegas led to the wildest night of my life. The ones following soon after in Vegas were a tale of their own, too scandalous to repeat. It took lots and lots of drinks, one night stands, and my travel trailer that I impulse bought being trashed for me to finally get over him. When I knew I had gotten over him, I found myself a beautiful honey, Marcia, who looked just like Lana Del Rey with her beauty queen face and wild mane of dark curls. She was gone within a month. Go figure.

I had been severely neglecting my physical health, ignoring the pangs and flutters in my chest. On my fourth night without sleep, strung out on amphetamines, I had a sudden heart attack and crashed the car. I was damn lucky that anyone found me, as I was in the middle of the boonies. When I came back to consciousness, Mattie was standing by my bed, arms crossed. "Alfred, now you actually deserve a lecture about not doing drugs from your big brother."

And lecture me he did. If you don't know, Canadians do have a temper. And boy, is it a sight to behold. 

So where am I now? Driving in my car to a tiny little desert town in Arizona. I totally forgot to mention! I'm a rockin' awesome journalist with my smokin' hot journalist girlfriend!

Alright, alright. I lied. I'm a single Pringle, the buffalo wings flavor because I'm hot and ready. Wait, that's the Caesar's pizza slogan. Uh, anyway.

I've been following a very interesting situation in Arizona, more specifically in a tiny town nestled in the mountains by the Grand Canyon, Ash Fork, Yavapai County.

The situation, you ask? Well, it's none other than a mysterious cowboy doing wonderful deeds for people in random little towns and then moving on to another one. This time, he's in Ash Fork.

I drive as fast as I can in my faithful old rosedale-red Chevy through the foothills and miles of meager vegetation leading to Ash Fork. My newly bought coffee colored Stetson cowboy hat sits on the passenger seat, bearing a stain from me spilling my coffee on it. Ahead of me, the road stretches out far and wide. But I've got time to drive it. The sun is still right overhead, beating down without mercy.

To my right, a large, colorful sign spells out WELCOME TO ASH FORK! I smile in relief, pumping my fist. "YAY! We made it! Hey Alfie Hat, we made it!"