Driven Faith

[The Ghost Writer]

Driven Faith

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Chapter One

As my fist slams down on the most annoying alarm clock I have ever received as a white elephant gift for Christmas – actually, the only alarm clock I’ve ever received as a white elephant gift for Christmas – my head slowly rose from the pillows, despite my want to sleep in. When I slowly opened my eyes, peering through the intense morning light coming from the bedroom windows, I saw that the clock read 8:30. It was time to get up and go to work. Monday had come, and the weekend was now history.

Aggravated with only getting six hours of sleep instead of a healthy eight, I lazily kicked off the covers and forced my body to get up and off the mattress. When I was on my feet, I already felt better. No one likes sitting up, but they can’t stand laying down either. It’s all that work involved in both tasks. You either have to wait to drift asleep at night or you have to fight off the want to slumber in the morning. Why can’t there be a nice on and off button for humans?

I was just about to reach my bathroom door to start my routine shower when I noticed that something wasn’t quite right about this morning. I stopped and looked around my room to figure out what was missing. My clothes were properly hung on the doorknob of my closet, as they should be. My golden retriever, Hemingway, or Hemi for short, was sleeping at the foot of the bed like he normally does. The ceiling fan was still spinning, as I like it cool at night when I sleep. I just couldn’t seem to figure out what was wrong.

And then it hit me. I didn’t smell my coffee. Annoyed and frustrated, I stormed out of the bedroom, followed closely by Hemi at my heels. The clicking and scratching of his nails and the pounding of my bare feet echoed throughout the house on the mason tiles in the hallway. Upon entering the kitchen I could already see my mistake. The set time on the automatic espresso machine was flashing and probably had been all night long. In my tired stupidity I had set the auto-brew for 8:25, but I forgot to confirm it; walking off to go to bed, I never finished the dang process. Grunting to myself, I corrected the mistake and began brewing the coffee.

After my routinely long, thirty-minute shower I headed back to the kitchen and poured a fresh cup of coffee in a chrome thermal mug, a favorite of mine. Three table-spoons of Splenda, a splash of hazelnut creamer, and gentle stirring made the perfect cup of coffee; for me anyway. I took a quick sip to help wake myself up and then turned around to head back to the bedroom to finish drying off and get dressed. Walking around with just a towel all day wasn’t exactly comfortable to me, and if my routine had gone exactly as planned – the flaw being the coffee timer, my mistake – I wouldn’t be sipping my coffee before I was fully dressed. God knows; throw a wrench in a man’s plan and the world turns upside down.

The outfit I chose was simple, but business-casual. I’m a counselor, not a CEO. A nice pair of tan khakis, a black silk Polo shirt would do nicely for today’s events. As far as shaving goes, I always do that in the shower. I find it saves time and only adds to good hygiene. Thus, awakened and refreshed with a clean set of clothes, I head back to the kitchen to fetch my favorite mug.

On the kitchen counter was a manila folder, one that I had been reading through last night to prepare myself for today. The folder’s contents had all the information I needed to know about my new client. Normally, I didn’t counsel anyone below the age of eighteen. In fact, most of my clients were twenty-one year-olds with drinking or drug problems, to thirty-five year-olds with marriage issues and mid-life crisis. This particular client was well below my usual age-range, but his parents were desperate to get someone to talk to him, especially to get him to talk to someone. In the long run, I suppose, they all had one thing in common, no matter who or how old they were. They needed a Savior.

Yeah, that’s me. No, not the Savior; don’t get that idea. I’m a Christian counselor. I help people in need of a bit of Jesus, and I give all the credit for my work to God. But don’t get me wrong, I was never a religious man. I can be pretty unorthodox at times and most of what I do isn’t based on a set doctrine or order of beliefs. I go to church, sure; but I go to all sorts of churches. Like just yesterday I went to a nice little chapel in Oregon. The week prior I was in New York attending a service at a Catholic cathedral. You see? I’m not your ordinary Christian with an ordinary church membership. I’m a Jesus Freak with a VIP pass into heaven, and I have no doubt about it. You see, I attend these churches at the end of each of my counseling sessions; not for me, but for my clients. I take on a new client each week and travel the country. From Monday to Saturday we’re in a car discussing their life, my life, and The Life. Finally, on Sunday morning, I take them to a church and introduce them to that Life. No, not the doctrine, but what people like me believe in – or more like Who we believe in.

Closing the folder, I carry it in the same hand that I was using to hold my coffee mug, sticking the edges of the folds in between two some-what free fingers. Using my free hand, I pick up a pair of reflective silver sun glass and slip them over my eyes. On my way to the door, I pick up the car keys off the end table in the foyer and whistle for Hemi. The big hunting-breed retriever comes racing around the corner, knowing what time it is, and follows me out the front door.

At the end of the sidewalk wrapping around the house, sits my beautiful wife. Well, okay, she’s not my wife, but I do love her. The way that the morning sun shines down upon her sends a chill down my spine every time my eyes fall onto the finely tuned body and shape. She didn’t have her top on – I forgot about that, too – so I’m going to be in for a chilly morning. The red 2011 BMW 650i Convertible roared to life as I started her up with the remote ignition sequence from my keys. What? You thought I was talking about a woman?

[The Ghost Writer]

Chapter Two

As I turned down the Tulsa residential road leading to the address printed in the folder, Hemi caught the scent of a nearby dog in the neighborhood. I could tell because of his instant excitement and the fact that he stopped hanging his tongue out in the wind. He dropped down from sitting on his hind legs and leaning with his paws over the top of the windshield; a convertible may just be a dog’s best friend, next to man. He turned to lean, instead, out over the front passenger door and began looking for the dog he smelled. His tail was stiff and straight back, or as straight as it could be considering it was backing against my arm.

“Relax boy,” I said to him, looking around myself, but not for the dog. I didn’t want to pass the address or pull into the wrong driveway. These suburban metropolises could get confusing at times and one had to be on their toes if they expected to find a house for the first time in an unfamiliar neighborhood. It was like exploring uncharted waters without a compass.

“In two-hundred yards,” Lara, the GPS voice, said aloud, “you will have reached your destination.”

“Thanks, honey; I love you.”

Sure enough, two hundred yards later, I successfully pulled into the driveway of 483 Vernon Street. The white-brick house was nothing but a clone of every fourth house on the street. The only uniqueness about it lied in the personal touches from the home owners, being a couple of lawn ornaments here and there, the exotic flower garden, and an average-sized blossom tree smack-dab in the middle of the front lawn. It was a typical suburban abode.

After two knocks the answer to my arrival came quite promptly. The woman who answered was the client’s mother. According to the file, her name was Violet Williams. She had a big grin and look of relief on her face when she saw me standing outside her threshold. “Ah!” she lightly screamed out of excitement, almost as if she was looking at a long-lost cousin or something, and threw her hands in the air. “You must be Dr. Sinclair! Come on in, come in!”

I never cared to be addressed as doctor. Yes, I received my degree from Harvard, but let’s face it, I was a prankster during my college years and royal screw-up that liked to start all sorts of trouble. I had cleaned up my act after I found God and headed for that title, but only to do the work, not prance around with an added word to my name. I guess you could say I’m the David that didn’t get to build God’s temple because he was a war-king.

“Thank you ma’am,” I said. “May my dog come in as well? He’ll be fine in the car if you have objections to pets.”

“Oh heavens, no! I love dogs!” Mrs. Williams, as she was married – indicated by both the ring on her finger and the information in the file – ushered us inside and closed the front door behind. “Make yourself at home, the living room is just through there. I’ve got fresh iced tea brewed, would you like some?”

“Sounds lovely,” I said. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be rude and say ‘yes’ anyway, but I wasn’t running on a full night’s rest like my body was used to; more caffeine may actually be my ticket to surviving day one on the road, healthy or not.

“Jared!” his mom called while entering the small kitchen. “Come on out and meet Dr. Sinclair!”

“Oh, call me Nathan,” I said.

“I mean, come on out and meet Nathan!” She was definitely quick to make new friends, I’ll give her that. The way she corrected her addressing me was actually quite amusing, and she found it to be too.

Stepping inside the living room I could tell that the client’s, or Jared’s, family was primarily Christian. The occasional Christian painting, framed Bible verses, and a small clay cross on the buffet-converted-antiquities table in the back of the room, combined with the joyful attitude of Violet, proved the details already provided in the folder. According to the initial appearance, Jared seems to come from a stable household. But I’ve learned before that appearances can be deceiving; that whole bit about not judging a book by its cover.

“Dan, Jared’s father,” Violet said, coming out of the kitchen with a tray of three glass of tea, “is working right now. He’s an engineer with BNSF. We get moved around a lot, so these cheap suburban homes don’t last long.”

“And Jared’s older sister, Rebecca?” I asked, recalling that the folder contained some information about a sister that was six years Jared’s senior.

“She’s in college right now,” Violet replied, passing a glass over to me. “She goes to OU.”

I took a sip of the tea, finding that it was a classic southern-style blend with a hint of cane sugar. The taste brought back memories of my grandmother’s secret recipe for brewing iced tea. Of course it wasn’t much of a secret when she taught my father, who taught me the day after. “Ah,” I said after the sip, “can’t say I’m a fan; but I won’t hold it against her.” I was pleased my small joke worked when Violet began to laugh. Sorry, but I’m strictly a Longhorns and Raiders fan. When it comes to the NFL; it’s the Dallas Cowboys. I grew up in Texas, so it’s only right that I support their teams.

“What’s she studying?” I asked.

“Astrophysics,” Violet said with a cheesy grin that meant to add and I have no idea why.

Hemi had just found a place to lie down at my feet, in between the loveseat I was sitting on and the coffee table, when his head popped back up with ears rising. His big nose was aimed towards a hallway coming out beside the kitchen. I turned my head to see the boy I recognized from a photograph provided in the folder cautiously walking down the hallway. His brown hair was long, but not shaggy. It had an interesting mop-style comb to it, though I guessed that he prefers to flip his hair out his eyes by tilting his head slightly forward and flicking it to the right, or so says the direction of the hair. His skin wasn’t exactly fair in the sense that that he was pale, but fair enough that told me he still saw sun and could probably develop a nice tan. It was smooth, free of freckles, moles, and acne. It was obvious that his personal hygiene was a priority to him.

When he came into the living room I could make out his hazel eyes. I then noticed that they were the same as his mother’s, as well as the hair color. The only difference between them actually was that she was a little on the heavy side while he was, well, a twig. Not boney, but thin. Jared took a seat next to his mom on the couch opposite the loveseat I was on. In a normal relationship between a mother and son, the son would normally want to distance himself naturally from his mother in this type of setting. It was just typical of a teenager to want to be away from their parents. Jared was no different. While Violet sat on one end of the three-seat couch, Jared sat on the other end. Based on the unsymmetrical positioning of the couch and the loveseat opposite each other, I happened to be right in the middle, staring at the gap between the two.

Jared was wearing somewhat-tight gray jeans with a white hoodie. Normally this style was associated to emos, but Jared wasn’t emo in the slightest. The Aces athletic shoes instead of old-school sneakers gave that away. They didn’t quite go with the tight jeans, but the brims of the legs were actually proportionate to the brims of the shoes. Today’s emos are often talkative as well, typically social butterflies compared to their gothic counterparts. But the fact that Jared has his hands tucked inside the sleeves of his hoodie meant that he was either cold or shy; and considering the temperature in the house had to be about seventy degrees, I assumed it was the latter.

“Hi Jared,” I said. “I’m Nathan Sinclair.” I got up from the loveseat and leaned across the coffee table, extending my hand to shake his.

Jared returned the gesture without hesitation, but probably out of custom and courtesy more so than enthusiasm. He was uncomfortable. They all are when they first meet me. Breaking the ice with a client is the second hardest part of my job. When they first meet me, they think shrink, or Christian (in the political sense), or even help in the sense that they don’t want it, that people think they’re crazy. In truth, none of my clients have been “crazy”; but simply lost in the dark.

“Nice to meet you,” he said.

“So,” I began, “from what your mom told me over the phone, last time we spoke, you’re having some difficulties with accepting a few things; one of them being your future. Am I right?” It’s true; I don’t beat around the bush and candy-coat things. I just cut right to the chase.

Jared shifted uncomfortably in his seat and looked down at his knees before looking back at me. “Uhm… yes, sir.” Well the kid was well-mannered, which was surprising. Looking me in the eyes before speaking, and even addressing me as sir wasn’t what I had expected.

“Well then,” I said, “I’m here to see what we can do about those difficulties. But as I told your mom over the phone, I can’t make them go away. That’s not my job. My job is simply to prepare you for the person that can.”

Jared’s expression didn’t change; his eyes merely shifted down slightly when I was finished speaking. He seemed to be fixing his gaze on Hemi, who was busy cleaning his paw with his sloppy tongue. His shifted his eyes back up and he asked, “So… you’re not the counselor?”

I took another sip of Violet’s southern tea and then replied, “Oh I’m the ‘counselor’ alright.” I used my free hand to gesture a quote symbol when I said counselor. “But the person I’m preparing you for…” I set the glass down on a coaster on the coffee table, “… is God.”

“Oh,” Jared said, shifting his eyes again, appearing ashamed that he hadn’t understood what I meant the first time. “Okay.”

According to the folder and the interview with Violet over the phone last time we had spoken, Jared’s problem was simply an on-going struggle about where he wanted to go in life. Violet had told me that Jared wasn’t sure if God really existed, and she believes that his doubt in his faith (or whatever was left of it) was causing his restless worries about his future. It seemed odd for a fourteen year-old to be worrying about stuff like that, but it was heavy on his heart. A lack of faith combined with those worries just spells a recipe for disaster. In fact, a disaster was closely avoided one night when some of Jared’s friends pressured him into consuming alcohol until he was rushed to the ER for poisoning. He narrowly avoided juvenile detention because of a technicality. What’s more miraculous, however, is that he narrowly avoided death. That’s when Violet and Dan called. We had discussed, over conference all, the dates that I would be able to counsel Jared, where I’d take him and what we would talk about. Of course, as is standard, doctor-patient privilege means that whatever Jared tells me during our sessions on the road, I’m not allowed to share with them, unless it’s a matter of life and death or other serious legal issue.

A good hour or so had passed since Jared had entered the room. I had briefed him on what I do as a counselor, how my sessions work, and that for one whole week it would just be me, him, and an attention-craving golden retriever on the road, travelling the country. I explained that there will be times that I may strike a nerve or find a sensitive topic to discuss, and that if he was too uncomfortable to go on talking about a particular subject, that he leaves it to discuss with God.

“Okay,” he finally said with a slight smile, telling me that I was already on a good start with this kid. “I’ll do it.”

“Are your bags all packed, like I asked you to do last night?” Violet asked.

“Yeah; I’ll go get them.”

Jared got up from the couch and headed back down the hallway from whence he came. Meanwhile, Violet picked up the tray she had brought out and collected the empty tea glasses. Hemi shot up from where he was lying at my feet, sensing that it was time to go and began heading for the door.

“That sure is a smart dog you have there, Nathan,” Violet commented.

“Yeah,” I said, looking back at Hemi who was giving me an anxious look, wanting to jump back in the car, “he can be pretty bright. He always knows what time it is, even before others do.”

“So where’s your first stop going to be?” she called out when she disappeared into the kitchen.

I stood up from the loveseat and stretched my legs. “Well day one is all about getting to know each other; so nowhere special. I’ll probably take him to Denny’s or IHOP for lunch. We’ll be heading into Missouri as our first state, so when he hit Springfield, I’ll give him a tour of the city I was born in and take him to a nice little Mexican restaurant for dinner. It’s called Mexican Villa; they’ve got great tacos!”

“Sounds like fun! I’m so excited he’s getting to do this with someone like you. It seems like you can really help him.” She reappeared in the archway of the kitchen with a damp rag, whipping off her fingers. “And Dan is simply thrilled about this as well. He always thought that boy needed to get out more. We may move around a lot because of my husband’s job with the rail road, but he always sticks to staying inside.”

I turned to hear a loud thunk from the wheels on Jared’s rolling suitcase come off the carpet and hit the tile floor in the entrance. Hemi turned from looking at me, helpless in opening the front door, to looking at Jared. Those big, begging eyes caught the teen’s attention. Another sucker falls to the pitiful gaze of that smart dog.

“Can I let him out?” Jared asked, petting Hemi.

“Sure,” I said. “He’ll jump in the car when you open the backseat. If he climbs up front, don’t worry, I’ll make him sit in the back. He likes to take the front seat whenever he can. Here’s the keys.” I pulled the car keys from my pants pocket and tossed them to Jared. Seconds later, Hemi was dashing out the now-open door, heading for the driveway around the corner of the small, enclosed porch. I said my farewell to Violet, thanked her for the lovely tea, and assured her one last time that I’d have Jared back home and safe on Sunday afternoon.

Outside, I helped Jared with putting his luggage in the trunk. I then noticed something else that I had forgotten about. Aside from the coffee and leaving the top down on the BMW, I had left my laptop in the trunk. I wasn’t too worried about it, as I always bring it with me on my trips. But I usually take it back inside the house when I return so I know it’s safe. I must be losing my mind. Then again I’m coming on being nearly thirty. I often wonder, how old is old?

Engine revved and ready to go, seat belts buckled, Hemi poking his head in between the front seats, and Violet waving us goodbye, I pulled out of the driveway of 483 Vernon Street and headed off to start another trip.

[The Ghost Writer]

Chapter Three

It didn’t take long to get out of Tulsa. After stopping at Denny’s to fully acquaint ourselves, Jared, Hemi, and I hit the Oklahoma Turnpike and headed for Missouri, the Show Me State. We had driven with the top down most of the way, which Hemi absolutely loved; but going seventy-five in late February was just too cold in a convertible. We had pulled over shortly before the border so I could raise the roof. It was a lot quieter now. All that could be heard was the faint hum of the V8 engine under the hood and the occasional sound of passing truckers going the opposite way. Hemi was a little upset, though.

“So, Jared,” I began, “you got a girlfriend?”

He cracked a slight smile, but one of embarrassment really. “Uh… no, I don’t.”

Giving no room for an awkward silence, I jumped into the next question. “Well that’s actually hard to imagine! You definitely got the looks.”

Jared started to fumble his fingers and stare at the dash. “I guess,” he said quietly. “I don’t know. I’m just not their type.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m quiet at school. I never really talk to anyone unless they say something to me.”

“You know, shyness is hardly a type that girls don’t want. In fact, most girls prefer a shy guy over others simply because they’re natural listeners.”

“Okay, but how can I listen to them if they don’t even talk to me.”

“Who says they have to talk for you to be able to listen?”

I saw Jared look at me out of the corner of my eye. “What do you mean?”

“You can find out how a person feels simply by watching their behavior. Small things like facial expressions and fiddling with objects give away a lot about what that person may be feeling. For instance, I can tell that you’re feeling nervous about discussing girls because you’re playing with your fingers. I also know that when you feel uncomfortable, you fix your gaze on something in front of you. Like the dash of my car right now, or my Hemi back at your house.”

And now the awkward silence settles in. I wasn’t disappointed by it in the slightest. There would be plenty of these moments to come and you just have to learn how to treat them as being common.

A few minutes passed before Jared spoke. “There is this one girl…”

“Tell me about her,” I said when he didn’t continue after a few seconds, probably because he was unsure if he should talk about it.

“I like her. But she’s with someone already… so it’s kind of just a hopeless crush.”

“Nothing is hopeless,” I said instantly, knowing that telling yourself such a thing only dampens one’s self-esteem.

“Well, yeah, I suppose; but she’s with this guy… and… well I… Oh never mind.”

“Slow down there, Romeo. Let’s back up a little bit. First, how about a name. We can’t very well talk about ‘this girl’ now can we?”

“Her name’s Stacy.”

“Does her mom have it going on?”

“What?”

“Never mind.” I chuckled at my attempt at a pun. “So tell me about Stacy. What do you know about her so far?”

“Well, for one she’s a sophomore. I’m just a freshman. So I honestly don’t see us working out anyway. She’s dating this guy named Brad. He’s a football jock; big build and all. I don’t think he treats her right. I also know that she hangs out with these friends that smoke a lot after school. The go behind the bleachers at the stadium and light up. But she doesn’t smoke, only they do. There’s also this weird April chick that she hangs out with-”

I had to interrupt. “-Whoa there, buddy. Let’s talk about Stacy’s character. You’re focusing on the bad things. Sure, everyone has flaws and makes the wrong choices; and not everyone has a great circle of friends. But if you want to learn to listen to them without them talking to you, you have to tune out the noise.”

Jared looked like he began to understand what I meant now. He started over. “Right,” he said to himself, “tune out the noise. Well, even though she’s not the smartest in her class, I know she loves to learn. She always asks questions during class, and I always see her after school for tutorials. So I guess that makes her… ambitious?”

“There you go,” I said, smiling. “You’re on the right track. What else do you know about her?”

“I know that when she’s around her friends, she’s patient. They’re always loud and obnoxious, but she just sits there and nods her head, smiling. She looks like she understands what they’re saying or doing at times, but in reality, I can tell she has little interest. She’ll look them in the eye when she speaks, but never when they do because they have nothing to say that interests her.”

“Have you ever introduced yourself to her? Spoken to her?”

Jared shook his head no. “I almost ran into her in the hallway once. We exchanged quick smiles as if to say ‘hi, sorry’, but that was it.” He then turned to look at me and asked, “What does this have to do with the counseling?”

I started to laugh. “I’m just getting to know you first. You probably aren’t aware of it but you’re revealing more about who you really are by simply talking about what you’ve noticed. You’ve told me that you pay attention to people, that you are observant. You also revealed that you have the ability to critically examine a situation from the outside and determine what’s happening. Sometimes there’s an advantage to being the shy guy in school.”

A little over an hour after that conversation we began to approach the outer limits of Springfield. Jared had fallen asleep a while after we hit the Missouri border and the sun had all but completely disappeared over the horizon. I had decided to take it slow and steady after we got off the turnpike in Oklahoma. There was no need to rush and, besides, Mexican Villa was a bit crowded this time of the night, so I thought I’d let rush die down before arriving.

Jared awoke to the sound of heavy traffic surrounding us. Everyone was either darting home from a late Monday night at the office, were out on the town to get dinner. Springfield wasn’t the largest city in the world, but it was definitely an active one. There were always parties and gatherings to get to, and new holes in the wall to check out. The east part of the city belonged to the wealthy and upper class. That’s where the Mexican Villa I grew up knowing was located at. There were actually four branches in the city. The one in the east, in my opinion, is the best. Its small, but they never fail to satisfy your appetite.

“We’re here,” I said, pulling into the tiny parking lot on the side of the building. “You’ll get to meet my cousin, Tim. He’s joining for us dinner and we’ll be staying at his home here in Springfield tonight. He’s got a kid your age; I think you’ll get along with him just fine.”

Unfortunately, poor Hemi had to stay in the car this time. I actually can’t think of any restaurants that allow pets anymore, unless it’s a dog for the handicapped. When we approached the front door I already saw Tim disappearing into the back dining room inside. He must have just arrived right after we pulled in. Opening the door, I let Jared inside first and then followed behind him. The familiar, missed smells of freshly baked corn chips and an assortment of fried Mexican entrees filled my nostrils and made me smile. “Man, I’ve missed this place,” I said aloud to no one in particular. “I used to come here all the time as a kid. I eventually made it a family tradition; to come here every time I visited.”

“Did you have family here?” Jared asked.

“My parents divorced when I was just a year old. My father stayed in Sprinfield; I was born in this city. My mother moved down to Texas and remarried. Dad eventually remarried as well, but it only lasted for about eight years or so, if I remember. Anyway, Tim, the guy you’ll soon meet in the other room back there, is my cousin on my step-mother’s side. So, he’s blood related, but we go way back. He would join us here all the time when I visited.”

When Jared and I made our way passed the tightly positioned tables and booths in the front dining room and through the small threshold into the back, more elegantly decorated room, I saw Tim stand up from one of the tables and wave me over with a large grin.

“Tim!” I exclaimed when we made our way over to him and shook his hand.

“Nathan, it’s good to see you again!” He gestured for us to sit.

When I sat down in the black leather-cushioned dining chair, I sat back and looked around the room. Nothing had actually changed since my childhood days of coming here. The furniture was still old wood with leather booths along the west and south walls, and tables everywhere else. There was a large, elegant fireplace on the north wall with a mirror resting above it. On either side of the fireplace were to wax status of Mexican soldiers from Santa Anna’s era, bearing rifles and wearing the full red and blue uniform of the Mexican army. Along the walls were various water color paintings of different landscapes and villas. The room was dimly lit by hanging lights over the booths and the occasional wall lap. The ceiling fans overhead had their bulbs turned down to just an ambient glow. And then there was the chatter of the old folk. Many of the city’s elders loved to come to the Mexican Villa restaurants simply because it was small and humble; away from the rowdy kids and soccer moms in their oversized SUVs and mommy-mobiles that frequented the more commercialized restaurants nowadays.

“So you must be Jared,” Tim said, looking at the nervous teen sitting across from him. My cousin had another wide grin on his face, but Jared only slightly smiled.

“Yes,” he said quietly, “that’s me.”

“Jared and I have been getting to know each other in the car,” I said. “The last thing I learned about him is that he’s a quiet sleeper. And a heavy one too, he didn’t even notice that Hemi was resting his head against his arm between the seats.”

Jared looked surprised and checked his left sleeve, finding traces of Hemi’s golden hair all over. He began to brush it away, and Tim and I could only laugh. “Well I suppose it’s good you got in a quick nap,” Tim said. “My son, Brad, loves to stay up late and play his Xbox. He’ll, no doubt, want to sucker you into it as well.”

Tim was a lawyer, and always dressed like one too. Preferring to wear to relaxed suits and the best shoes, he always looked like he was ready to take on the world with a bit of wit and intellect. He wasn’t the kind to get cocky, however; Tim had learned an important lesson in humility several years ago in a court battle involving a white collar scandal in Springfield. Tim then turned his career around from business law to family law. He also devoted more time to his own family and God, gaining more respect from his son.

One of the waitressed approached our table, dressed in the traditional black shirt and khaki uniform with a green apron. Sliding a hand into one of the front pockets of the apron, she drew out a notepad and pencil to take down our orders. I always got the same thing when I came here, a plate of three crunchy tacos with no tomato or sour cream. I never tried anything else but that. It was a tradition to me. The white American cheese that smothered all three tacos was just so delicious that my taste buds would begin to water before the plate even got to my table. It was messy, but incredible.

Tim ordered an enchilada and Jared ordered a Taco Al Carbon; a similar plate to mine, but with everything on it. All three of us had Dr. Pepper to drink. I drank a bit more than the other two, however. I had an unbreakable habit to down at least two beverage glasses before the order got to my table, no matter what restaurant I was at. It’s a good thing refills are free.

“So,” Tim said, placing down his glass of soda, “I’ve prepared one of the guest rooms for you, Jared. I’m sure you’ll like it. We’ve got a neat fish aquarium in there. It has a cool glow to it at night, but it the filter does make a slight constant noise; I hope you don’t mind that. If it’s any bother to you at all, you’re more than welcome to sleep in the other guest room.”

“How many rooms do you have?” Jared asked, astonished.

“Rooms in general? Or bedrooms?” Tim said laughing.

“Tim’s a lawyer, Jared,” I explained. “He’s got a bit of money. The house he lives in is enormous, and I’m sure you’ll have fun simply exploring it. We’ll stay the night with Tim and his son, Brad. We’ll hit the road again tomorrow morning.”

Tim leaned back in his chair and examined Jared for a moment. His legs were crossed, which was typically a sign that he was analyzing a situation, or scrutinizing someone. He did this to everyone; some more often than others – like me, for instance. “Jared, I’ve got a question for you.”

Jared finished taking a sip of his Dr. Pepper and set the glass down cautiously. “Uhm, okay.”

“If I were to ask you, what makes the human race different from all the other species on earth, what would be your first response?”

Jared thought for a moment, staring at the table. He then looked back up and said, “Communication.”

Tim seemed intrigued by the answer. “That’s an interesting response. What do you mean by it?”

“Well,” Jared began, “as far as I know, humans are the only beings capable of communicating in various ways. Not only do we have a plethora of dialects and languages, but we’re also capable of writing, using hand signals, and even communication through electronics.”

Tim nodded, but being a lawyer, I knew he had an argument. And I was right. “But what about dogs?”

“What about them?”

“Dogs have various ways of communicating as well. Their bark is one way, but contrary to popular belief, it’s not their primary means of communicating. Dogs use body language just as much as humans do. You can tell a dog’s mood by their tail, their ears, and even their eyes. Other animals know when a dog has marked its territory by the scent of its… well… I’m sure you know that one.”

Jared nodded in admittance of his defeat. “The only other thing that comes to mind then is morality.”

“Know that,” Tim said, “you’re probably right about. But I’m curious to hear your own reasoning behind it.”

“I’m not really sure how to explain it, sir. All I know is that humans are the only ones that not only decide what is right and what is wrong, but also debate over it and constantly change our morals.”

“Very true.” Tim took another sip of his drink and said, “But do we change our morals?”

I started to smile. I knew where he was going with this; he had given me the same lesson and deduction before.

“What do you mean?” Jared asked.

“What you call ‘morals’, Jared, are actually instincts. They don’t change. They will always remain what they are. The debate revolves around when we should suppress some instincts more than others; or when we should encourage them. C.S. Lewis used the example of a piano. Our instincts are like notes. There are no two kinds of notes; right and wrong. Instead, one note is right at moment, and wrong in the next. Morality is like a song. But, what is really interesting is that even though this may prove to be true, we’re always changing the times that certain instincts should be suppressed or encouraged. Meaning, that whether we know it or not, human beings are trying to create a perfect moral law. To do this, we must compare our current morals, with a set standard; and then adjust them to that standard.”

“And what is that standard?” Jared asked.

“Well that’s another funny thing, now isn’t it? We don’t know.”

Jared started playing with his glass, pondering everything that Tim had just said. The moisture that had dripped won the side of the glass had created a small pool of water beneath the base, letting Jared easily sliding the cup in different directions. Finally, he said, “Is that standard… God?”

Tim smiled and uncrossed his legs. The waitress had just approached out of nowhere, carrying a large plastic platter with three plates. As she laid each of our orders down on the table in front of us, Tim said, “That is for you to decide.”

[The Ghost Writer]

Authors Note: I'm actually serious about completing this story; so I could really use some honest critiques from anyone willing to sit and read all of this.

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