Trent
Watching my best friend in turmoil isn’t the easiest thing to do. He takes things so much more seriously than they actually are.
But, he does have a good point.
We do need to do something instead of sitting around wondering what to do. We do need some answers and fast. Owen gets up and turns to me from the door frame. “Want a cup of coffee?”
“Sure, I’ll take one with sugar,” I say as he leaves the office, but he turns back.
“After all these years, you still don’t know that I know how you like your coffee?” he asks me, waiting for the usual reply.
“Yes, I know,” I tell him, “But, one can’t be too careful these perilous days on our ranch.”
He rolls his eyes and leaves. I know that smoothed over some of the nervousness. Been like this for as long as I’ve been friends with him. Dealing with some forms of abuse from his father and then that asshole, Lear, who shows up and takes us to Hotel Hell on Earth, seems like he never had a chance.
That’s where I come in. I’ve always tried to lighten his load, and that of others. But him especially. Talking him into running away with me and thinking that it would be great, probably didn’t really help him. But, we’re two guys out on the road, making the best of their life. Only somehow, at the time, I forget that money is something we would need.
Dumbass me.
Everyone knows that cash is equal to food these days. Everyone needs it, but it’s in short supply.
Like the crops.
I agree with Owen that we do need to have the detective check it out. A fresh pair of eyes on this couldn’t hurt either. They’ll probably be like, ‘This here’s your problem, here’s how to fix it. Oh, and by the way, here’s what you owe me.’
As much as I don’t want another grumpy guy around here, waking up to dead crops is a definite issue. Being in emergency mode always makes me a little less serious, so I crack some jokes to ward off my fears, which almost always sends the opposite message. That I don’t take things seriously.
But of course, I do.
I need to figure out what exactly is dealing the death sentence to the fields and if the crops can be replanted. If the ground’s even safe to replant them. Good thing it’s still early enough in the season to do that. Sighing, I take my feet from the desk and go looking for the promised cup of joe.
I find Owen in the kitchen, deep in thought as he leans against the countertop. The coffee is still brewing which means another talk to the hands out there about taking the last cup and not starting a fresh pot. It’s a staple around here, besides whisky.
I walk up next to him and creepily ask, “Why so serious?”
Owen almost jumps from his skin and turns to me holding a hand to his chest, eyes wide. “What in the hell, man?”
I can’t help but laugh at the expression on his face. One of fighting for one’s life mixing with anger. “Just wanted to bring you back from the darkness of your mind, is all.”
“Well, find a gentler, kinder way to do that,” he says half joking, but I know he fully means it. “Nearly gave me a damned heart attack.”
“Sorry. You just looked so lost in the moment,” I explain to him. “It’s a need I’ve got, to bring others back from the dead.”
He looks at me sideways and smirks, “Can you bring the crops back from the dead?”
“Lemme look in the Comanche handbook and see if there’s some kind of ritual dance that I can do, or perhaps make an offering for, Manitou,” I put my Native American spin on it.
He grins as I continue to put him at ease about all of this mess. He pours a cup and hands it to me along with the sugar. “Why don’t you have some coffee with that sugar? Geesh, you’re like a horsefly to shit with that stuff.”
I stir the sugar in and take a sip, feeling the heat of the comforting liquid slide down my throat. Nothing in the world like a good cup of coffee laced with a ton of sugar. “Why should I worry about it when I have you to worry about it for me,” I ask, wiggling my eyebrows at him.
“Har-de-har-har,” he says. “You definitely need someone to take care of you. If it weren’t for me, we’d be in a lot more desperate places than the death of our crops.”
“And without me, you’d never crack a smile,” I tell him as he laughs and drinks his coffee, black. I find that our approach to life is like how we take our coffee. He’s all dark and gloomy, but mine’s filled with sweetness.
I’m so full of shit sometimes that I can barely believe what I say.
We both stare at each other, hearing the slam of a car door.