Chapter 1

My name is Jacob Gabriel Parker. You can call me Jake, Jakey, JP, Parker, Park-man or just J. I’ve been called worse, and I’d say I’ve been called much better.

I was born on the Fourth of July, 1976; America’s 200th birthday. A patriotic baby, no doubt. But while my story starts in the 70s, this story is not about the 70s, or even the 80s. No, this story is about an all-American boy growing up in the Midwest in the early 90s.

This story starts in the spring of 1991, just before I turned 15 and my life turned around completely. Something terrible and tragic had happened on Christmas Day, and as the long winter began to thaw and turn to spring, so did the funk I’d been living in since that day.

I awoke to my alarm clock blaring a staticky “She Talks to Angels” from The Black Crowes. I rubbed the sleep from eyes with a frown, as I liked the song but I had decided suddenly that it hit a little too close to home.

“Says they all knooow her naaaame...”

I clicked the off button, shutting Chris Robinson up for the moment. I didn’t bother with a snooze, even on a Monday. I blinked, scratched, rolled out of bed and trudged off to the shower to get myself right for the day, gradually waking up to water as hot as I could handle it. I kept it quick with the shampoo and the soap, then exited. Taking a little extra time with my hair, I even used a little product. I brushed my teeth, got a couple of sprays of deodorant and wrapped in a towel, trudged off to my room to dress.

“Morning Jake.” Mom half-whispered, cheerfully.

I turned, gave a brief wave and took a step toward my room again.

“Your hair, Jake?” She said, cautiously, stopping me in my tracks. “You styled it this morning?”

I turned my head blankly, ran my fingers up through my short locks, a bit of gel already drying my bangs in a sweep to my right.

“Yeah, I guess.” I shrugged.

Mom gave a small smile and I turned and finished the trek to my room, quietly closing the door. I got dressed, picking out a long-sleeved t-shirt, then picked up my dark gray hoodie. I suddenly looked at, turned it over in my hands and took a breath. Without much more thought, I balled it up and tossed it into the hamper.

I’ve been wearing that too much, I thought. I picked up my school bag, double-checked my baseball bag and brought both out of my room to the bench by the front door. Today would be the first day of baseball practice for the spring.

The smell of breakfast brought me back to the kitchen, where mom had hash browns crisping, and a waft of bacon brought my nose up slightly.

“You’re out here early, Jakey,” mom quipped, pointing the business end of her spatula at me. “Have you thought about Grandpa’s proposal from the family meeting?

“Yeah, you know I want to,” I replied, stretching a bit and blinking.

“Right, Jake, but we gotta plan out your summer almost to the hour then.”

“I know,” I said reflexively. “I used to dream about this when I was a kid. Uncle Tim was my hero. I never understood why he quit.”

Mom’s eyes narrowed a little. “But you have to make some sacrifices to have time for it. Your grandfather expects some commitment from you on this. You’re going to have to put in some hours. Make some decisions on what stays and what goes.”

“I’m fine with that, but is dad fine with that?” I returned. Even at only 14, I’d spent a few summers helping dad around the farm. “Oh, and are you sure you’re fine with it, mom? I’m a little surprised you’d let me do this.”

Mom turned back to stovetop, idly stirring and flipping. “You know your dad is at least a little thrilled. I don’t have to tell you how dad and I met. Of course I’m worried about my baby boy, but that’s why I’m going to be there every time making sure your safety is taken care of.”

“Moooom, I’m not your baby boy. Josh is,” I whined.

“I’m your what?” my little brother yawned, still in his PJs.

“Joshie! Good morning,” mom cooed. “You’ll both always be my baby boys!” mom cheered, with wide eyes.

“OK then,” I drawled. “Can I help you with anything?”

“Yes, Jake. Set the table for me. Thank you. Dad will be in soon.”

As if on cue, the door to the garage opened and dad popped in, a little of the cool spring air invading our warm kitchen. He’d already kicked off his muddy boots in the garage, and was unzipping his light coverall when my little brother ran to him, jumping up. Just in time, dad caught him, dropping a foot back.

“Hey buster! You’re getting too heavy for that,” dad rang out, dropping the five-year-old on his heels and messing his already messy hair. “Let’s see what mom has for breakfast!”

I’d just set the table, dropping forks and grabbing orange juice and milk. An odd habit I’d picked up watching “Part of this complete breakfast” cereal commercials, I’d demanded to drink both with my breakfasts. Dad returned from washing his hands.

Mom grabbed an oven mitt and pulled the oven door open. The sizzle and light smoke of oven-fresh bacon filled the kitchen. I hadn’t been particularly hungry, but I was ready to eat now.

Dutifully, all her boys lined up with plates in hand at the stove, and mom dished each of us some freshly scrambled eggs, hash browns, strips of bacon and a slice of wheat toast. Serving herself, she sat at her spot at the round table.

I helped Josh, pouring him a glass of milk, glancing at the clock. It was 7:05. I had ten minutes to get to the end of the long driveway before the bus arrived. I was the first pickup of the day, meaning what would be a 12-minute drive to our rural school became a nearly 45-minute odyssey as we wove through rural gravel roads, picking students of all ages from the farms.

“Jake styled his hair today,” mom said, cutting through the sounds of forks on plates.

Dad took a quick glance at me, a light twinkle forming in his eyes. “Is he not allowed to do that, Donna?

“Of course he is, Johnathan,” Mom teased right back. “You know, he just hasn’t in a while,” she offered pointedly.

“I’m sitting right here, guys, at the table with you,” I groaned. Snapping off a big bite of crispy bacon, my eyes rolled back, nearly forgetting the affront.

“Of course you are, Jake, we just have worried about you, you know? We know it was a really – difficult thing you went through, and we’re happy to see you coming around.”

“I know,” I said reflexively, looking at what was left on my plate. I dug back in and finished the last of hash browns, downed my OJ and got up, grabbing my plate, fork and glasses. I dropped them in the sink and headed for the door.

“Heading out already?” mom asked, checking the clock.

“I’ve got a bag full of books, and bag full of baseball stuff (complete with catcher’s gear), and I have to get my coat on,” I shrugged.

Mom tucked her robe together and walked over, arms outstretched. I made a show of putting my light jacket on, grabbing for my backpack when the hug came unbidden.

“You know we love you, Jake?”

I exhaled, relaxing in mom’s embrace.

“I know, just, just time to move.”

I probably meant move on, but move was true as well.

Dad would head back out to, well, do farm stuff. Mom would finish getting herself and Josh ready, then head to her job, which just so happened to be office manager of her father, my grandfather’s, construction business. Both my parents worked with their parents, which seemed odd to me. Dad still farmed with his father.

So with my backpack squared over my shoulders and my baseball bag slung over my left shoulder, I started the expedition to the end of the driveway.

“Bye Jake, have a good day at school,” mom called out. “We’ll talk more tonight at supper.”

Oh, it was maybe a quarter mile driveway, but I always bitched about it when it was snowing or exceptionally cold with a wind chill. Today was pretty mild, if a little gray. I was a short 40 steps from the end of the driveway when the bus pulled up, brakes groaning. I did not hustle those last steps, to the annoyance of the driver.

I groaned and lifted my bag, carrying it over the top of every empty seat on the bus, stopping to drop my bags and my backside into the second-to-last seat on the right. I had owned the very back seat for many years, but I couldn’t bear to sit in that seat again.

My school was a K-12, a combination of four rural towns, each complete with a farmer’s co-op. For political reasons, the combined school was constructed in the country near the midpoint of those towns back in the 70s. My bus would pick up farm kids and then make a stop in town to pick up the “town kids.”

We’d just rolled up at the town park bus stop and I spotted my best friend, Mike Scholz, queuing up for the bus. About a dozen kids got on, filling the bus to about three-quarters full, and Mike paced back and plopped into the seat next to me with a wheeze. As some of the oldest kids on the bus, we could hold court in the back seats.

“I hate Mondays, dude.”

“I know, but you don’t even have baseball tonight. Wrestling is over, you don’t run track and you don’t have a single extra-curricular until August, when football starts. You’re in the clear until then,” I grinned smugly.

“I work, slick.”

He was right. He was 15 and due to turn 16 in the fall. He worked in the kitchen at the local steak house, but he didn’t have a car yet. He was saving up.

“Come on out to the farm. I’ll show you work, pussy,” I grinned.

Mike was growing up to 5’8, about my height, I thought, but he was a stockier boy. He let his light brown bangs hang straight down, and he generally wore some kind of concert or comic book T-shirt. He had a faded homage to the Justice League today. He didn’t come from money, but his father, a single parent, kept him and his siblings fed with a roof over their heads and he made sure their grades were up. Mike’s mom had passed some years ago.

“So, a little extra time in front of the mirror today,” Mike queried.

“Why is everyone obsessed with my hair today?”

“I dunno, you’re, you’re dressed differently today too,” Mike gaped. “What’s goin’ on?”