With a startled jolt, Brent realized that he had not once taken his eyes off of the tavern door below his window. His trance was replete with harsh memories of his own unraveling. How could he have gone from such promising fulfillment, to where he was now? Alone, disgusted, and filled with self disappointment. A writer who could no longer write. At thirty-three years of age, Brent Madison had done all that he was capable of.
He sat down at his laptop, after locating it's keyboard under several take out menus, and a New York Mets scorecard from the first and the last game he attended with his father. He paused to look over the scorecard.
The day of the game was a special day of bonding between them. Brent had been 'acting out' in elementary school that year, and the school psychologist deduced it was rooted in fear of his family falling apart. His parents had been constantly bickering for months, and young Brent was witnessing his universe coming apart. His father went all out that day to assure Brent that his fears were ungrounded. Between innings, he would tell Brent of family stories and life lessons, and most importantly, as he turned and held his son tightly, he lovingly promised Brent that there was nothing that could ever separate his loved ones from him. And then he made Brent repeat it back to him. It was just then that the blistering foul ball had rocketed into the back of his father head, sending his eyes up into his lids, before slumping on top of the lad, as dead as Pauly Shore's career.
The impending neurosis caused young Brent to stop talking. But, as an intriguing byproduct of this silent condition, Brent Madison took to writing instead. This life altering aspect of his condition was not fully appreciated at the time. His Mother, fearing a trauma filled life for her only boy, decided that they both needed to confront their grief and loss, and so they planned to attend opening day games for the Mets from that year on. It was to be a family affair, in remembrance of her fallen husband, and a reassurance to Brent, that life was as beautiful as it was unjust. But when it came right down to it, it was just stinking odds on their first outing, when that broken bat flew into the stands, and drove Mrs. Madison's nose cartilage firmly into her brain, causing her instant demise.
Once again, Brent Madison jolted back to reality. He rubbed his eyes, demanding these horrific thoughts recede back into his sub-conscience, and allow him to get to the business of writing.
Yes, this is what was needed now. Rather than self-pity, he had to forge anew. This would be his turning point. Within ten minutes, he had noted that at age thirty-three, he had lived as long as Jesus Christ, and was failing miserably to list comparable accomplishments.