It’s only in defeat that you can find out what you’re really worth.
His father had told him that when he had lost his first game at eight years old. He hadn’t fully understood it then but life wasn’t so kind to keep him ignorant for long. His father had encouraged him to handle defeat with grace and dignity. Beats didn’t always prescribe to that methodology but it tended to win out when he tried to rationalize his feelings later. Of course, there was no real rationalization that dealt with those nagging feelings...that loud voice in the corner of his heart…
”You ain’t good enough!”
[ Ace Ortega Continued From: The Fear Index ]
Ace had been bad with directions on day one and on day ten he had gotten only somewhat better. The path he had taken from the Shoetree had been a familiar one, though one he had taken more than a week ago with a small-pink guide by his side. So much had changed and the path remained somewhat the same. He hadn’t consciously chosen it or purposely followed it—but the universe had a strange way of working. Beats was armed to the teeth and ready to rumble. He was on a shoot first, ask questions never mindset and had been for a bit.
Going back to the Lake, all it took was one gunshot for him to empty the clip. Was he wrong for that though? That gunshot had predicated a fuckin’ grenade comin’ onto the scene and blowin’ them all up to smithereens. Was it wrong that when he thought about the possibility of hearing Saku’s name on the announcements—he thought about how soft her lips were and how hot her skin had been? He had left her to die. What if she was still alive?
What if he saw her again?
He was removed from his thoughts of Miss Jackson when the door came to view. It was fitting, to end up here after where he had just been. This was where it had all started. This game. It had seemed like a forever ago. A lifetime. More than a hundred lifetimes as a matter of fact. The cracked door was still stained with specks of blood. He felt his fingers and knuckles sting as his grip tightened on the flashlight and he opened the door.
“Hello…,” he whispered, “Anybody home?”
No answer. He walked through the door and he clicked the safety off his BR-18. The house seemed empty—but it also seemed weird. It had always been a little weird. Beats was low to the ground, a boy playing soldier. It was strange, being somewhere sober when the last time you had been there you had been tripping balls. Ace kept on expecting shadows to move and music to start playing in his head. There was none of that. The house, in spite of the weirdness—remained much the same. If there had been carnage in The Leadership Houses, it appeared, from Ace’s estimation, to have been isolated in other places.
When he found his blue shirt, the shirt he had abandoned on day one because it was too fuckin’ hot, he nearly screamed for joy. He quickly grabbed it and put it on. Shit! It pretty much felt clean! He felt tears come to his eyes and he sobbed. Shit! He was literally sobbing! Over a t-shirt!
The action wasn’t lost on him.
“Shit,” he snorted, “Fuck,” he sniveled, “Damnit.”
Ace hadn’t cried in earnest since Meilin had been killed. Since Ramsey had died. Now he was crying over a fuckin’ shirt.
His body slumped onto the floor and he quickly found a wall to place his back to.
“What the fuck do I do…?”
That wasn’t even the fuckin’ real question.
“What the fuck am I doin’…?”
There was no answer. Not from himself. Not from God. Not from an intruder. His eyes searched the room and found a camera. Ace hadn’t thought about the cameras much. Them shits had been compartmentalized early, probably as soon as Ivy walked out that door naked. What was he more ashamed of his parents seeing? Him with those women or him murdering those people? Was he even ashamed at all?
“I’m sorry momma,” he spoke, “You didn’t raise me like this,” he wiped his eyes, “You raised me better and I was never really grateful,” Beats took a deep breath, “I was always mad at you for shit you couldn’t control. For not makin’ shit work with Pops—for gettin’ back together with Pops,” he sighed, “I’m sorry for askin’ for all those clothes you couldn’t afford and all the other bullshit. I’m sorry for makin’ you feel bad for bein’ a post lady and drivin’ an old ass Civie.”
He shook his head.
“I made you feel not good enough because I never feel good enough,” that felt odd to say, “That ain’t your fault. That’s the way I’m built. The world ain’t enough for someone like me. I could get everything I ever wanted—I’d still find a way to fuck it up.”
His head found his hands. When he started he could never stop. He kept on going. He was always prisoner of some sorta moment. It didn’t matter how big or how small.
“Papa,” just the word was enough, “Pops,” too much, he sobbed, “Dad,” the tears had been held for so long that when he let ‘em go, they didn’t stop, “I’m so, so, so, sorry Pops,” it was all fucked up, “I’m just fuckin’ like you Pops. I’m just fuckin’ like you.”
Snot and sobbing. Snorting and crying. Beats breathed and then he stopped. Breathed and then stopped. Finally, he spoke again.
“You were right Pops. You did your best, you got me in the greatest camps, you chopped copper in July to put me in Little League, you drove hours to Memphis with me—you would always come to my games even straight off of work,” he wiped his eyes again, “I was always focused on what you weren’t givin' me I never took the time to be grateful for what you did,” this felt odd to say as well, “The real gift you gave me was that you believed in me. Even when I didn’t believe in myself. What a precious present and what the fuck do I do with it?”
He worked his way up and through the hallway to the bedroom. He opened the door, closed it behind him and found the bed. The BR-18 strap was removed, as was his bag. His pockets were emptied. His guns were by his side, in grasping distance if shit got heated.
“I’m so, so, so, so fuckin’ lost without you guys.”
That was the truth wasn’ it?
“If I,” that was the wrong mentality, “When I get home,” that was better, “I ain’t gonna live how I lived before. No more half measures. No more second guessing. I’m goin’ full throttle. I’m gonna live life like it’s s’posed to be lived. I want it all. I’m gonna do it all.”
A blabber mouth, a motor mouth.
“I’m gonna get outta here, I’m gonna go to college, I’m gonna win the Heisman,” he was fuckin’ nuts, “I’m gonna go to the league and I’m gonna give up all my fuckin’ salary to the families of my classmates. I’m gonna build memorials for y’all. I will make sure nobody forgets what happened here or what happened to anybody out here. Imma be a star for everybody. I’m gonna be better for everybody. I’m gonna live for everybody. This is my moment, my destiny,” he was a fuckin’ idiot, “I’m not gonna fuck this up. I promise. I can’t fuck this up. I can’t. I can’t.”
There were no more tears to cry, he closed his eyes.
“I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.”
But what did that mean? What did that entail?
“I’m gonna do what I gotta do—whatever I gotta do is what I’m doin’,” did that even make sense? It didn’t matter, “I ain’t playin’—but I ain’t the one to play with.”
He nodded to himself, his eyes closed, painting pictures of home with fractals.
“I’m a man now momma,” he thought about all those breakfast time lectures, “I gotta think like one. The world is a hard place when it humbles you,” he turned over to the side, “I’m so lost Momma, but I haven’t lost all them lessons.”
When it came down to it. Ace would take care of Ace. Whether that meant running or shooting or killing or looting. He was single minded and selfish. Self-centered and egotistical. Those were ugly parts of his mind that he felt bad about having. Those were parts of his self that he denied and he repressed.
Ace had to stop blaming them. They had been just as responsible as any other of his character traits for keeping him alive so far.
Beats napped for an hour. He woke up, he gathered back his guns and he left the house he had started at.
He was on the move with the rising sun.
[ Ace Beats Continued In: Make Happy ]
