It was at most forty degrees outside during the warmest part of the day, a chill belied by the intense Wyoming sun, and by the beads of sweat forming under his shaggy, heavy bangs. He was neither prepared for, nor was he happy about, his recent move from Nashville, also a place with detestable weather. But he had a faint determination to pour himself into the mold of this new lifestyle, as there was no third option, and no sense in a smart boy like Jaime to have to use the last resort.
The steepness of the route was unfortunately underestimated. It looked like flat land in the view from the guest house, but for some reason, the muscles in his thighs started to throb, along with his temples--unusual for a jogger. He also noticed that his mother’s house was no longer in view, which was a little alarming. He checked his cell phone for the time, and calculated that he had twenty minutes until he
was officially late for the party. However, his mother often encouraged being slightly late to parties. “Ten minutes late, you’re fashionable. Twenty minutes, you’re not allowed to eat,” she’d said on more than one occasion. Jaime was always sure to be on-time.
It was starting to get dark, and his mother had already called four times, none of the calls Jaime had answered. Walking uphill for what seemed like forever had made him sweaty and not presentable. He eventually just parked under a tree a few feet away from the trail and smoked a cigarette, which then became two, and then three. His meditation was interrupted by the nasally voice of an older woman.
“Those are bad for ya’, you know,” The voice offered.
“Really? I hadn’t heard,” Jaime replied, hoping his sarcasm was enough to ward this person away from him. His eyes met with a harsh blue light, intrusively scanning his face and his person.
“You lost? You look lost,” The woman observed. From what Jaime could see, she was wearing a police uniform. “You a cop?” He asked.
“Not quite. Security guard,” she said, pointing behind her. “For that house over there.” Jaime concluded that she must have been unnecessarily hired for his mother’s party as a frumpy prop.
“Oh. I live over there,” Jaime said, and pointed in a nonspecific direction.
Ms. Security Guard burrowed her brows. “Well what are you doing sitting out here? There’s mountain lions, you know.” He, in fact, did not know that.
“I’ll be okay. I’ve got a mean look.” After a second of silence, he assumed the joke fell flat. “Just wanted to be outside for a minute.”
“Well, don’t freeze to death,” She said, walking away. “’Night.”
“’Night.”
About thirty minutes after the party was scheduled to begin, Jaime was still sitting underneath the tree. He knew his mother would be incensed. She had little patience for the unsociable, and couldn’t understand for the life of her how anyone could be pathologically scared of a party. His father was more sympathetic to his condition, but eventually it became obvious to Jaime that it wasn’t sympathy his father felt for him, it was toleration--toleration only sustainable because Jaime was the definition of a quote unquote latchkey kid. Eventually though, Jaime became too much for him to handle, even from a remote location. The condition had not only taken over Jaime’s life, it had taken over his as well. Jaime honestly wasn’t aware of this until his father broke the news, over dinner, that Jaime would be moving over a thousand miles away.
“I work over fifty hours a week, Son. Your mother works none,” He explained. “If nothing else, she’ll be present. We at least owe you
that.”
“I don’t get a say?” Jaime countered.
“It’s for your health, Jaime.” He said, keeping his eyes on the floor.
“And for mine. You can’t go on running the streets while I’m at work. You need someone who’s going to be home.”
During this conversation, it came to Jaime’s attention for the first time, that he had no clue what his father even did for a living. He knew he made lots of money, and that probably meant a high-stress job. He knew he lived in a decent-sized house in a crime-free neighborhood, and he knew his father had an indistinct disinterest in everything, since Jaime could remember.
Jaime was far too perceptive to actually believe that he wasn’t wanted, or that he was the cause of his parents’ divorce. Instead, he had always undertaken the old adage that ‘life is a bitch, and then you die,’ and cut away all of the psychological malarkey. He tried his hardest to not care if his parents wanted him. They were in their own little world, out of touch with humanity, preferring instead status and imitating sitcom families’ behavior. It was their goal to ensure Jaime’s idea of life was just as limited. It was apparently their responsibility to split him apart so that he had no bearings, ever. But Jaime was just along for the ride; an outside observer who could find the humor in his family while enjoying the material perks. He liked to think he stepped outside the bubble, and walked right into a world with no romanticism, no psychobabble. Not so jaded that he shunned the world completely like the goth classmates he taunted with his few friends, but jaded enough to express his rage effectively without becoming a victim of the stupid world. Apparently, no matter what he said or did, he was a part of it all whether or not he was willing to be.