Fatal Flaws Page 6

  During his recreational time, Hank was always working on the ‘next big thing’ as well. For instance, both couples had taken an interest in underwater diving and we had all signed up for lessons together. We enjoyed the time spent together during our training and, at the completion of our SCUBA course, we traveled together to the Florida Keys to complete our open water ‘checkout’ dive, which was the final step leading to our certification.

  For me, Mandy, and Patti, diving was meant to be a casual pastime and something we could incorporate into future vacations to tropical locations. But Hank couldn’t just be SCUBA certified as an entry level ‘Open Water Diver’ along with the rest of us. He was driven to undergo more advanced training in order to upgrade his certifications to ‘Advanced Open Water Diver,’ followed by ‘Rescue Diver.’ He was a genius at figuring out how to introduce his SCUBA acumen into any conversation and I am certain that anyone Hank had even the most casual of relationships with knew about his expertise as an underwater search and rescue diver.

  Similarly, he couldn’t be satisfied with tandem jumps when we went skydiving (jumps where you are strapped onto a fully certified skydiver as if riding in a baby front pack). Once again, Hank felt the need to become fully certified for solo skydiving. After compulsively logging the required number of solo jumps over the 18 months following our initial parachuting adventure, he then received additional training, so he could start offering tandem jumps with him as the expert skydiver. I often wondered if he was motivated more by the idea of his friends and peers knowing he had mastered yet another adventurous skill, or by the feeling of empowerment he must’ve felt as he realized the lives of others were dependent on him as he and the novice skydivers harnessed to him fell together through the atmosphere.

  It was during this time period I began to wonder if the professional successes he enjoyed or the fun and excitement he experienced through recreational activities would ever be enough to keep him satisfied. In addition to his unquenchable thirst for achievement, he seemed to crave more excitement and thrill in all aspects of his life, including business and social settings. As I watched his ego and arrogance grow, I wondered how he was going to be able to stay satisfied with his nice, Mormon family who continued to be active in the Church, despite his progressive apostasy and his immersion in interests and activities that required him to leave his wife and family behind. I still considered Hank my best friend, but I was beginning to worry he was developing critical personality defects which could, eventually, bring his whole world crashing down around him.

  If I had actually understood Hank’s compulsive drive to take everything in his life to the highest possible level, or foreseen the pathological outcomes of his trait, my own life would have turned out much differently. I would have allowed the greater geographical distance between us since his move take its natural toll on our friendship, much like a growing distance between bodies of matter in space leads to a waning gravitational force between them. We both would have moved on and found new friends. I’m sure we would have kept in touch, but I may not have looked to him years in the future, when I needed to deal with the problem of my son-in-law Brandon and his treatment of my oldest daughter Ryan. Without Hank fanning the flames of a violent response to Brandon’s abusive behavior, perhaps I would have been able to help Ryan escape from her perilous relationship peacefully.

  Regarding the way Hank and I chose to break Ryan free from the prison of fear and suffering her bridegroom had built around her, I remain somewhat conflicted. I’ve laid awake many nights, staring into the darkness above me and wondering if I am a classic fool, an immoral bastard, or both—based on the decisions I’ve made, the people I’ve trusted, and the actions I have taken. I cannot say I regret the definitive response we chose in order to protect Ryan and ensure she would no longer be a victim of domestic abuse at the hands of her young husband. Furthermore, I will never feel any man who makes the mistake of bringing violence into the life of one of my daughters deserves anything better than having the life snatched out of his worthless body. I do, however, regret lighting the fuse which would lead to the explosive chain reaction of events which ensued as a result of partnering with Hank as my accomplice.

  Section Four:

  The Pact

  Chapter 9

  “Dude, are you awake?” I inquired, as we both lay silently in Hank’s pop up camper after a day of canoeing on the Guadalupe River outside of San Marcos, Texas.

  “Yep, I was just laying here thinking about how you pussied out earlier when I wanted to take on that rapid. We could have made it, you know.”

  “Probably, but maybe I didn’t feel like dragging my fucked-up canoe all the way back to the truck if we didn’t make it! You know I’m always willing to push the envelope, but I was never a freakin’ Boy Scout or a special forces mega-stud like you, and I’ve only even been in a canoe a handful of times.”

  “I know,” he said. “I’m just flipping you shit. Don’t get your panties in a wad. By the way, did you ever really think about that saying? Do you think chicks really have to deal with their panties wadding up?”

  “Hello?” I replied, “I’m a freakin’ Gynecologist, dumbass! You think that I don’t have to extract wadded panties on a regular basis? That’s my bread and butter. With really bad cases, they can’t even walk into the clinic, so they have to call 911 and get taken to the E.R. by ambulance.

  Hank clicked on the battery powered lantern, went up on one elbow and leered at me. I looked back at him, wondering who would crack up first. We both gave in at the same time and subsequently shared a good laugh. We had never claimed to be the most sophisticated members of our profession, and conversations like this clearly demonstrated our similarly stunted maturity level.

  “So, what’s up, Marky-Mark?” he asked.

  Hank had decided to bestow on me this nickname, despite my objections. I was really not cool with sharing a call sign with the Calvin Klein underwear spokesmodel who had risen to fame as the front man for the band Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch.

  “I was just thinking about something Lizzie told me the other day,” I said. “She told me there’s a group of girls at school who’ve decided they don’t like her. They’ve been flipping her a lot of shit and trying to get the other little kids to ignore her. She broke down crying when she was telling me about it and it totally broke my heart. I just hate it when I see my kid being victimized like this and there is nothing I can do about it.”

  “Like hell you can’t do something about it! You need to go talk to the teacher and let her know your kid is being bullied!” he replied. “Bullying is not cool these days. It’s like a buzzword that gets people all up-in-arms. You go into that school and tell them your second-grade daughter is getting bullied and I guarantee you, you’ll see action.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “I’ll get Mandy to go in there and raise some hell. She’s much better at keeping her cool, but still letting people know she’s not about to take any shit from anyone. If I were to try talking rationally about how my kid is being traumatized by some little brat who has an inferiority complex, I’d probably just lose it altogether and start threatening to bring a lawsuit against the kid’s parents, the teacher, and the whole frickin’ school district. I’d probably end up getting tased, then dragged off school property by some 300-pound school security officer who got cut from the police academy due to a glandular problem.”

  “What do I always tell you, dude? Hank lectured. “You’ve gotta pick your battles. You can’t go off half-cocked and make yourself the problem, instead of pointing out to the authorities your kid is being victimized. You don’t want your kids growing up thinking that coming to you with a problem is the last thing they should ever consider.”

  “I know. I do, really,” I replied as I chastised myself. “I just can’t stand the thought of my kids being victimized, though. I’ve told you about my upbringing, and maybe that’s why I just feel like I need to protect my babies and do everything I can to ke
ep anyone, or anything, from hurting them.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with watching over and protecting them,” he said. “In fact, if you fail to protect them, as far as I’m concerned, then you fail as a father. All I’m saying is if you lose your shit as you are talking to your kid’s teacher or principal and you put them on the defensive, you’ve already lost the battle and your little girl is worse off than before you involved yourself in her problem. I’ve gotta say, on the other hand, I think it’s awesome you care so much. I think that’s just one more way you and I are alike. Just like you, I would do anything to protect my kiddo’s! I swear, if I wasn’t so much better looking than you and if your puny dick was at least half as long as mine, I’d have to wonder if we were actually twins who were separated at birth by some weird hospital nursery snafu!”

  We both laughed for a minute as we considered how much each of us was devoted to our offspring. Silence befell the camper as each of us considered our duties as fathers and realized how much our children depended on us to protect them from any and all influences that would seek to do them harm. My mind returned, during these moments, to a dilemma which I’d considered many times before, but had previously kept buried deep within myself in order to conceal the truth regarding the lengths to which I’d go to protect my children.

  “Do you ever think about what you’d do if someone hurt Nicki?” I inquired, as my mind returned to the present conversation. “I mean, really hurt her—like raped her? Or if her future husband started abusing her and she didn’t want to leave him? Can you imagine how hard it would be to see that shit happening and not do something about it?”

  “Listen, I’ve always told myself I would be the most satisfied convict in prison if I had to kill the dude that hurt my baby, even if I got caught. Of course, I’d rather get away with it, but nowadays you definitely can’t count on getting away clean without doing some extreme planning. I really don’t think that would stop me, though. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t man up and protect my own daughter or, if it was too late to prevent something from happening, make the asshole pay for what he’d done.”

  “Well—once again our great minds think alike!” I said. Maybe we really did have some biological connection neither of us was privy to. “I would go insane knowing that some prick had hurt Ryan or Lizzie or Emma and I couldn’t take him out of the picture. I guess it’d be one thing if he was arrested and prosecuted, but if he got away with it and I could find out who it was, I’d have to take matters into my own hands. Now, if it was an abusive husband, I think that motherfucker would have to just have to disappear.”

  “You know I’d have your back if it came to it, right?” Hank said, with a rare look of earnestness and sincerity in his eyes.

  “Honestly, that’s what I’d hoped you would say. And I’d only be a phone call away if you ever need me to help you take care of anyone fucking with any of your kids!” I replied.

  And so the conversation progressed within the dark travel trailer that night. Hank and I talked about the many possible scenarios which could, someday, develop around one of our children which might necessitate our intervention. The last thing either of us would ever wish for our daughters was to get mixed up with some asshole who would think it was okay to lay a hand on her, but the prospect of such a righteous act of violence, should it ever be necessary to deal with this type of situation, was kind of satisfying. What I didn’t realize at the time, although maybe I should have, was making a pact like this with a guy like Hank may not have been the best idea. He was, after all, an extreme individual who rarely just dipped his toes in the pool to see if he fancied a swim, especially when the activity in question was inherently infused with adrenaline, such as unleashing the vengeful beast within. I should have known that Hank would likely go way beyond testing the waters of such an enterprise. A guy like him would dive right in and it may be hard to get him back out of the pool.

  Well, I can’t be too hard on myself. The emotional trauma I’d endured growing up with my father, and the physical abuse I’d watched him commit had obviously molded my personality. I would never be able to tolerate the idea that someone close to me was being victimized. I certainly didn’t expect either of us to have to call on the other to fulfill this obligation, and it did feel good that I was at least somewhat mentally prepared to defend my kids should I ever need to intervene on behalf of one of them. Honestly, it made me feel like a bit more of a man to know I had committed to go to any length to protect both my family and Hank’s, and I could see he was equally gratified by the pact we made that night.

  Chapter 18

  It was Labor Day weekend and I wasn’t on call. This led, as was often the case, to the Bishop family inviting themselves over to the Simmons household where we could all hang out, swim, barbecue, and generally have a great time. Hank and his family were still getting settled in their new house and their pantry was not adequately stocked with paper goods such as cups and plates, which we had plowed through by Sunday morning. Hank and I were volunteered by the ladies to make a trip to the Dollar General, a mix between a gas station convenience store and a Kmart. What these stores lacked in quality and selection, they made up for in affordability and convenience. Since you could hardly swing a dead cat in East Texas without hitting one of the bargain basement retailers known as The Dollar Store, Family Dollar, The Dollar General, or The Dollar Tree, accessibility was one of their greatest attributes. This one was right down the road from the Simmons abode.

  As we pulled into the parking lot, I said, “Looks like the typical collection of junk yard reject cars. I’m surprised half of these heaps even turn over.”

  “Hey, as long as they can get you somewhere to cash your disability check and pick up some cigarettes and a half rack of Keystone, they’ll do just fine. Have you seen the single wide trailers most of these cretins crawled out of?” We were, arguably, a bit elitist, but mainly when among the literal dregs of humanity, and, based on the assortment of vehicles in the lot, it was clear some of them were doing a bit of Sunday shopping inside the store.

  “I think I’ll just pull around to the side away from the door and decrease the chances of getting my doors dinged up by any of these pieces of shit.” As I left the Mormon Church further and further behind in my ever-regretted history, I had started to get quite a mouth on me and was really learning how to throw around some serious trash talk.

  “Jeez, Mark. You’re becoming one of the biggest potty mouth’s I’ve ever been around, and I was in the Marines for four years, dude.”

  “Didn’t mean to offend your delicate sensibilities, Elder Simmons. Did you accompany me on this trip to save my soul, or can I go buy some shitty paper implements now?”

  “Implements,” he repeated. “Aren’t you mister fancy pants?”

  “Screw you, dick breath,” I shot back.

  We completed our transaction and made our way out of the store. My arms were filled with grocery bags, and as I turned around to make a snarky comment about the cashier with the tits hanging down her geriatric chest nearly to the level of her belt line, I pushed the ‘Out’ door open with my foot. The pneumatic cylinder making up the ‘soft close’ mechanism of the door was apparently shot, so the door offered much less resistance than I had anticipated. As a result, the door shot open and the greasy haired redneck who was approaching the entrance from the sidewalk had to jump out of the way in order to keep from being struck by the door.

  I turned back around just as this was occurring and saw the scowl form on his face.

  “What the fuck?” he barked out and he gave me a menacing look. This guy looked to be about forty years old. His skin was nicotine stained, but not as badly as his crooked, brown teeth. He was wearing a homemade muscle shirt with a Confederate flag on the chest, and his arms, which looked like they once could have sported a fair amount of muscle mass were now flabby and displayed a farmer’s tan.

  Apparently, this glorious example of East Texas breeding and culture did
not like the idea of being so grievously wronged by me and didn’t look willing to accept the quick, but sincere apology I offered. I was certainly not the kind of asshole who went around kicking doors in people’s faces, regardless of their social class or offensive wardrobe choices.

  “Sorry, buddy,” I said, “I didn’t think that door was going to open so easily. Didn’t mean to try to take you out or anything.”

  “Yeah, shit, that fucker ain’t s’pose to come crashin’ open like that,” the East Texas good ol’ boy exclaimed. “a’course the day a pretty boy like you can take me out—well, that’ll be the day.”

  “Okay, then. You have yourself a good day and watch out for flying doors,” I replied. No sense in getting into a battle of wits with someone who was unarmed, I figured. I was certainly not cool with this piece of shit calling me a ‘pretty boy,’ but I wasn’t in the mood to respond aggressively at that moment. The last thing I needed was to have to explain to Mandy I couldn’t even make it to the store and back without getting into trouble. Hank, up to this point, had just kind of snickered at the near miss and the fact that I had to apologize to this country bumpkin.

  At this point, however, he jumped in by saying, “He is kind of pretty, isn’t he?” as he slapped me on the ass.

  “Holy Shit,” I said. “Now I’ve got double bogies, both coming in hot. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  We were around the corner, and we’d walked several paces toward Mandy’s Explorer when we heard our newfound friend call out to us.

  “Where you faggots off to, anyways?” he cleverly inquired. “You got to get back to your fairy friends so you can suck some more dick?” Somehow, he must have taken Hank’s statement and the accompanying gesture as an indication that we were a gay couple out buying some snacks for our weekend homosexual orgy. The realization that this guy was drunk and looking for some ‘faggot’ ass to kick was easily ascertained, based on his unwarranted aggressiveness and the slight slur I’d noted during his clever quip. My impression that he had arrived at the Dollar General to purchase his second six pack of the day, was further evidenced by his slightly impaired gait as he quickly closed the distance between us.