Jim and Chad, Part 2 - 29. Chapter 29

Chapter 29

 

No one would ever accuse me of being the "strong, silent type." The problem isn't strength (I'm "nicely built all over" as Chad would say), the problem is that I'm not silent. In other words, I always seem to have an opinion or something to say. I've had to suppress it on many occasions, but if you give me a chance, I'll tell you exactly what I think.

 

Since I'm not one of the strong, silent types, I've never really been able to figure out why they're so quiet. Some say that they're so secure and so comfortable with themselves that they don't need to say anything to anyone else. Others say that they're snobbish and just don't want to associate with those whom they don't choose. And one divorcee I knew said that her strong, silent type didn't talk much because there wasn't much there, kinda like "The lights are on, but nobody's home." I don't know about your experiences, but my experience with this type always keeps me guessing about their silence and how to get a response from them.

 

I used to get conversationally lucky with Chad every now and then, and say the right thing to start him into some long and interesting discussions--at least up until July. While time had made it easier to talk with Chad, I'm not quite sure what to do with Jeff now, other than to get drunk and get right to the point with him.

 

But this time, all I have to do is say, "So tell me about growing up in your family." That alone triggers the strong, silent one next to me to start a monologue that keeps me grinning and laughing for the first half of our slow hike up another thousand feet to Mary Jane Falls.

 

Jeff is the middle of five children. Actually he's the single child between two sets of fraternal twins, an older brother and sister and a younger brother and sister. As a matter of fact, the actual birth times make the group boy-girl-boy-girl-boy. And all of them, except Jeff, are married and have at least two kids each. From what I gather from the descriptions of his parents and siblings, the boys are like his Dad, while the girls are like his Mom. And although he never actually says it, the whole family seems to be way more than just "nice looking."

 

He goes on to describe growing up in Andrews, Texas, and attending schools there. He made good grades, and played baseball in the summer. That's when I say to myself, 'Yep, Jeff's body is a baseball body, wide and strong on top, well-defined in the middle, with fast, muscular legs on the bottom.' Some of the pranks he did with other kids his age had me chuckling, but it also made me realize that teenage males really don't have much common sense, especially when it comes to the wee hours of the morning, sports rivalries among small West Texas towns, several cans of spray paint, and a water tower or two.

 

In general I'm thinking that Jeff had the normal West Texas upbringing until he started to describe that a good part of his and his siblings non-school time was split between two farms: one southwest of Brownfield (north of Andrews) and another to the west of Andrews. Turns out the farm near Brownfield was from his Mom's side of the family, while the farm near Andrews was from his Dad's.

 

When I ask about the sizes of these farms, he quietly says "seven" for the one near Brownfield and "thirty one" for the one near Andrews. He quickly goes on to say that the farm west of Andrews is actually a ranch.

 

It takes me a few seconds, but I finally figure out that Jeff means "thousands of acres" after those numbers. When my brain starts to calculate stuff, I stop on the path and unfocusingly look in Jeff's general direction. On a map visualized in my brain, I remember where Andrews is located: on the north end of the Permian Basin, which is oil country (yes, complete with pump-jacks, for those of you not from Texas). Then I also remember that ranches in West Texas have about one head of cattle per ten acres, so his family's ranch probably has a couple thousand head of cattle. (Drier countryside has fewer cattle per acre.)

 

'Daaaaamn,' is basically all I can think when I realize that Jeff's family is really running a big agri-business, probably worth somewhere in the range of $100 to $200 million (if all the machinery is paid off), and the work Jeff has personally done while growing up is easily worth five to ten percent of that. Then I finally realize that Jeff's well-muscled body is really the result of long hours of birthing, raising, milking, wrangling, and herding cattle; plowing, planting, and harvesting crops, part of which include hay and grain for the cattle; along with maintaining all the machinery that goes with those. In short, by the time he was 25, Jeff had more experience in life than most people get in a whole lifetime.

 

As I stand in awe of the guy a few feet away from me, my eyes refocus and lock onto Jeff's face and eyes. At first I can't read the look on his face, but a few moments later the look changes to one I immediately recognize: sadness and disappointment. But almost as soon as the look appears, Jeff turns away and starts slowly up the path again, this time without me.

 

While thinking 'DAMN it, I've screwed up again,' I quickly follow and catch up to him. Then I reach over and gently grab his arm. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to act that way. Hope I haven't insulted you with my gawking."

 

Jeff takes a few more steps, then stops, sighs loudly, and looks off into the distance. "You didn't insult me. Actually, you did nothing wrong. You just made me think about something I've been ignoring."

 

Immediately I'm confused at his statement, so I wait for him to continue. But after a few more seconds when he doesn't, I quietly ask, "And?"

 

After a few more seconds, Jeff sighs and turns to look at me. Immediately I notice the sad look on his face. With a quiet resignation in his voice, he says, "You get it. Within thirty seconds of describing the ranch and the farm, you have an idea of what I grew up doing. Mike, on the other hand," as he looks off into the distance again, "Mike doesn't get it at all. He just doesn't understand and hasn't in the nine months we've been together. He wonders why I have a horse and a barn, and put up with all the stray animals that come with it. At times, he just doesn't have a clue about how much it all means to me, how much this way of life is so much a part of me."

 

Jeff's statement temporarily stuns me, and I'm not sure what to do. Being a guy, I want to help my friend, I want to fix the problem for him, but I can't seem to figure out how. Somehow my mouth starts babbling, "Wow, that's some confession. I'd like to be able to fix this for you, but it seems that the only thing I can really say is that I'll help out wherever I can. I mean, deep down I'm honored that you've told me this, but have you discussed this with Mike?"

 

When he hesitates and keeps his head turned away from me, that's all I need to know--he hasn't. I reach up, put my hand on the side of his face, and turn him back so he sees my eyes. In a form of a quiet admonition, I say, "You need to discuss this with him otherwise he won't know what's going on inside that brain of yours and why you need him to understand this so much."

 

But suddenly I also realize that I shouldn't be touching him, so I quickly pull my hand away. "Oops, sorry. Just remembered that I shouldn't be touching you. I certainly don't want us to get Vicky-ed again."

 

The look on Jeff's face is priceless. At first, he has this nervous, concerned look as he quickly looks down the path to make sure they aren't following us. Then he relaxes, looks down at the ground in front of us, and starts to laugh loudly. When he looks back up at me, I almost melt inside. The sparkle is back in his eyes and he has a huge smirk plastered across his face. It's almost as if he wants to get me back for what I've just done to him by making me want him, so he just stands there and stares deeply into my eyes.

 

I begin to shiver slightly as he looks at me. He's so intimidating, he's so fascinating, he's so incredibly good-looking that even after the admonition that Vicky gave us, I still want him so much, right here and right now, even if it means I'll burn in Hell for all eternity. And somehow he knows that, too. With those intense green eyes of his, he toys with me just like a cat toys with a mouse.

 

I find it almost impossible, but I finally break away from his stare. "Guess we'd better get moving, huh?"

 

Jeff's quiet chuckle lets me know that I can start walking again.

 

As we turn and head up the path, I ask, "So what type of music do you like?" Although it sounds like a question to get him to talk, the question is really an effort to give me some time to recover and calm down the jitters I feel inside.

 

Most of the rest of our hike up to Mary Jane Falls is one of discovered similarities. As I expected, Jeff likes country music, mostly contemporary country rather than the older I-lost-my-job-my-wife-left-me-and-the-mortgage-is-overdue type of twangy, country music. Based on my experience, country music seems to be a part of the DNA of most West Texas men. But to my surprise, I also find out that he likes jazz and big band music, both of which were his maternal Grandmother's favorites.

 

When he asks what I like to listen to, I tell him that I like a range of music, from classical to new age, but also including songs from artists like Garth Brooks, Randy Travis, and Alan Jackson.

 

Jeff's face lights up when I say those names, and I can tell he's happy that I like country music, too. He adds to the list I've already started. "Montgomery Gentry, Kenny Chesney, and Rascal Flatts."

 

"Tim McGraw, Toby Keith, and Sugarland," I add.

 

"What's one of your favorite songs?" Jeff asks.

 

"I have lots of favorites, but the one that I think I like most is 'Little Bit of Life.'"

 

When he grinningly responds, "Craig Morgan," I know he knows and probably likes the song.

 

As we walk, we both throw out the names of other songs and artists that we like, each of us trying to out-do the other. "I Can Feel You Breathe" by Faith Hill, "Ten Rounds with Jose Cuervo" by Tracy Byrd, "If You're Going Through Hell" by Rodney Atkins, and "Would You Go With Me" by Josh Turner are just a few of the nearly a hundred that we name.

 

We'd been laughing and having a good time up to this point, but I screw up (again) by saying "'If You're Reading This' by Tim McGraw." After saying that, I notice the lack of an immediate response by Jeff, but I keep walking up the path. After another larger number of seconds, the lack of a body next to me finally registers in my brain.

 

When I turn to look for him, the serious, almost hurt look on Jeff's face and the glistening in his eyes instantly makes me regret what I had said. But the shakiness in his voice as he says "'Arlington' by Trace Adkins" affects me the most. I silently curse myself for letting the songs get more serious, then start thinking for ways to fix this latest screw-up.

 

By the time I get back to where Jeff is standing, his eyes have glazed over and he's looking off into the distance. The tortured look on his face tells me something that I'm not understanding, but a quiet voice inside reminds me that he's lost someone close and maybe now is the time when he's going to talk about it. With some foolish idea that I might be able to help, I quietly ask, "High school friend? College buddy?"

 

After a short pause, Jeff clears his throat and quietly says, "Long time best friend and next-door neighbor." He then takes a deep breath and sighs shakily. A mischievous grin crosses his face, and he looks at me with a sparkle in his eyes. "Well, actually, Jake was one of two best friends I ever had. As kids, he and I did everything together. His family were farmer-ranchers, too, so we got to do lots of things together, him helping me, me helping him. We were almost inseparable from age four until about halfway through college. And there were times when we caught all kinds of hell for what we did." That statement alone tells me that Jake was probably the reason for some of the teenage pranks that Jeff pulled.

 

But as quickly as the smile had appeared, it disappears and Jeff's face grows dark and sad again. "Jake was heavy into ROTC at Texas A&M, so naturally he went into the military after college. He even got up to Major in the Special Forces by the time. . . ." Jeff reaches up to rub his eyes for a couple of seconds, then clears his throat again. "When they brought his body back from Afghanistan, they shut down the whole town for him. He got a hero's welcome home. All the way from the church through town to the cemetary, they lined the streets and cheered for him. We all felt that he was a true hero, especially after what those dickless bastards did to us."

 

He sucks in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Then quietly he says, "I've never told anyone else this, but I felt Jake that day. He said, 'Don't cry for me. I'm having fun up here in Heaven. See you in about 60 or 70 years. And take good care of yourself and that special third wheel of. . . .'" Jeff's voice trails off after the last word and his face goes completely blank, almost as if he's not here anymore.

 

I don't understand what he means about "that special third wheel," but I easily recognize the face. It's the face I saw last night, and now as much as then, I'm frustrated because I'm unable to really help him. But this time I'm even more astonished as I watch tears begin to roll down his cheeks. The trust that it conveys affects me deeply, and I instantly all I can feel is how painful this must be for him, especially since I know how painful it is to lose someone so valuable and so close.

 

"I'm sorry," I say quietly as I reach up to wipe away his tears with my right hand. When my fingers touch him, I can feel both the warmth of his body and the chill of his tears, but I also feel his body trembling underneath my touch. Based on what I'm feeling, something serious is happening deep inside him.

 

All of the sudden, Jeff jerks and looks at me angrily, then reaches up and grabs my wrist, yanking my hand away from his face at the same time. I almost panic because his grip is painfully strong, but something in his eyes and the look on his face also tells me that he doesn't quite realize where he is.

 

To try to get him out of his trance-like stare, I call his name rather loudly. At the sound of my voice, Jeff realizes that he's not alone. His eyes refocus on me and the stern, angry look quickly changes to an apologetic look as he looks at his hand around my wrist, then quickly lets it go. He reaches up and wipes the tears away with his hands, all while saying, "Damn, sorry 'bout that. These are private issues I'll deal with later."

 

When I hear his comment, an alarm bell goes off in my head. While I'm thinking that he needs to get some help before he hurts someone unintentionally, something deep inside possesses me to reach up with both hands, grab a fistful of his coat in each hand, shake him a little and say strongly, "Don't suppress these feelings, Jeff. How long has it been since you last talked to someone about this?"

 

When he doesn't answer in 15 to 20 seconds, I know that he hasn't discussed this with anyone. "You need to let these feelings out every so often, especially if you've never let them out before. I'd like to help, but I think this is serious enough that you really need to tell Mike, or maybe a professional. Okay?"

 

Jeff looks at me, nods, then looks to the ground. Then, as I watch over the next several seconds, he takes a couple of deep breaths and chases away the troubled look and sadness from his face. While watching this amazing transition, all I can think is 'Some men surely know how to hide their feelings really, really well. He needs to tell someone, but it appears that he's not going to now. That's okay, but hopefully he'll talk with Mike soon.' When he's smiling at me again, I shake my head in disbelief and let him go, patting his coat to flatten and straighten what I had crumpled up in my hands.

 

We turn and walk in silence for roughly five more minutes before reaching Mary Jane Falls, or what would have been waterfalls if there had been any water flowing down the sides of the nearby mountains. Since I need to rest my feet, we find a place to sit for a little while before returning back to the cabins.

 

As we're sitting there quietly looking out over the mixed green and brown of the little valley we're in, I'm not sure why I do this, but I lean my head against Jeff's shoulder. I think how comfortable this is with his well-muscled shoulders under the coat's padding. I'm also thinking how different he is from Chad. I close my eyes to visualize the two of them side-by-side, comparing similarities and differences.

 

When I get down to the final tally, Jeff wins over Chad but not by much. Both of them are great guys, with incredibly good looks, brains, and personalities. But Jeff is a taller, wider, and a little better looking, though Chad is really good-looking too. Then I begin to wonder why either would want to be with me. I'm so far behind them in the comparison that it isn't even funny. But a small part of me says to quit thinking about it and relax. So I stop the thinking, listen to Jeff's quiet breathing and the breezes rustling the trees nearby, and think how nice it would be to sit like this more often next to the man that I've . . . damn, I might as well admit it . . . fallen in love with. And in less than a day, too.