When Three Becomes Two

Mike’s PoV

Two Years Later

The phone suddenly screamed, quivering on the receiver. I swore, and yanked off the grease-soaked gloves I was wearing. Sizzling burgers frying, waiters calling out orders, and crinkling of paper flooded my ears in the background as I snatched up the phone, putting on my professional voice.

“Hello, this is Rudy’s, how may I help you?” I said politely.

“MIKE! Hey, Mike, what’ve you been up to? Oh, I miss you so much! How are y—“

“Wait. Who’s this?”

“What, you don’t recognize your friend? It’s Billie! You know, Armstrong?”

A grin crinkled on my lips, the first genuine one in a while. “I’m glad you called. I—“

“Don’t talk to me now.” Billie interrupted. “You have a job to get back to, right? Right! So lemme guess. I’m going to see you at eight o’ clock tonight at your very restaurant, right?”

“Yeah, all—“

Click.

Well, he was excited. I shot a glance at the nearby clock hung precariously on the wall. Five-thirty. I still had a while. Hopefully it would go by quickly…

Ever since the day I left Billie’s house, I had led a normal life, as normal as could be. I fulfilled every bit of time I had lost when working those eighteen years. I acted as a normal father and husband, having had gotten married to Brittney, my long-time girlfriend.

So, every day for the past two years was wonderfully blended together in a blur of repetition I hadn’t experienced since my school days. I brought my daughter to school, worked at Rudy’s all day, came home, kissed my wife, helped Stella with her homework, visited the Gilman on my rare free Saturday nights—everything I should have been doing for years now. I was happy again. It was an alien feeling though. I loved being on the move, but now that I was settled in with a proper family and life, I felt relaxed at last.

Of course, there wasn’t a day to go by that I didn’t miss my two friends—one living away from me, one…dead. But I did my best not to awaken painful memories.

And occasionally, I would wake up at night to remember haunting dreams—dreams of murder, blood, and revenge…

But like I said, I did my best to ignore them. I would always reassure my anxious wife who saw me moaning and tossing and turning, then fall back asleep and forget it completely.

Nevertheless, I was glad to see an old friend. Everyone I had known had welcomed me back with open arms, and I was filled with relief every time I saw a familiar face. All the better to forget my old life…

Sometimes there were reminders, though. People still came up to ask for an autograph, or perhaps a picture, remembering me as naught more than the bassist from that long-gone punk band…

As I had thought, the late afternoon dragged excruciatingly slowly. But finally eight o’ clock arrived, just as the crowds thinned out to become only a few families and couples eating quietly in their booths.

There was a short ding as the door opened. I turned from the kitchen to see Billie Joe walking in.

During our days apart, he had changed quite a bit—his hair was no longer unruly, but glued into orderly spikes. He was a little more gangly than I remembered, perhaps, and darker-skinned. But that was Billie, all right.

I dropped my spatula and rushed to meet my friend. He embraced me in a bear hug, and then looked at me critically at arm’s length.

“You look different.” He said.

With a smirk, I replied, “So do you.”

For the next three hours, we talked, elbows on the table, beers in hand. I’d forgotten how much fun Billie was to be around. I never did realize how much I missed him all those years.
Billie was doing well—he now worked as a manager of a little independent record store just on the outskirts of Oakland. He and Adie were both working on Adeline and it was doing extremely well—they were shipping clothes into more and more stores every day.
Joey was in high school working hard as a freshman, and Jakob was just starting middle school. My friend talked eagerly about his sons, a light flooding his gray eyes. It made him look a lot more alive than I’d ever seen him.

The two of us swapped stories all night long, discussing everything from our jobs to the newest punk bands of Berkley. The alcohol I held in my right hand helped me to be a lot more eager than I normally was.

But there was one thing neither of us discussed—what had happened before we left each other. We didn’t discuss the ghost, or the killer that haunted my dreams every other night. Twice we got close to the subject, but both of us shifted in our seats and changed the topic.
Eventually, I stood up, looking at my watch, and said, “Damn! It’s time for me to close up shop here. Nice seeing you again, Billie.”

“Same here.” He agreed. “How about same time tomorrow night? I just feel so…glad to see you again.”

“Yeah, tomorrow’s good.” I replied.

He pulled on his leather coat and swept out through the door. With a small smile on my face, I did the usual routine—clean up the kitchen, mop the floors, stack the chairs, and lock up everything else. As I drove home that night, I saw a yellow sign illuminated by my car light.

Mendicino Mountains, Turn Left—6 Miles.

Driven by an impulse, I switched on my turn signal.