Success

         The realization of his own mortality came the day that Ryan Shaul was celebrating his eleventh birthday, when a body suddenly smashed into the sidewalk only a few yards away from him. It had been a suicide, the choice of self-imposed death by a man of around thirty. By the look of his suit, he had probably had a good career, a loving family, and a nice car. Or, maybe he had lost all of those, resulting in his decision that his life was not worth living anymore. For all Ryan knew, that man could have even been his own dad, the dad that had ran out when his teenaged girlfriend became pregnant. Still young himself at that time, maybe Ryan's father had moved on from that youthful mistake and formed a life all his own. But, the sight of the man that had smashed into a limp pile in front of him would forever stain his thoughts more than that of his own dad.

         As young as Ryan was, the crunch of bones and splatter of blood caused him to immediately cringe and close his eyes before he could truly comprehend what had just happened. Inside his dark thoughts, the image came to fruition, becoming something that would never completely leave him, always returning whenever his mind fell into the same state of darkness. The dull, flat stare of the man's eyes, which had only just seconds before held life, would haunt his every nightmare. The discovery that no matter how successful you appeared to be or really were, you might never be able to escape thoughts of inferiority, loneliness, depression, or lost times. These were the understandings that had been dumped onto him in that one fateful moment. Spreading and multiplying like fungal spores, they continued to grow inside him for the rest of his life, and he grew with them.

         But, rather than void him of any semblance of emotion from that point on, Ryan's dreams and desire to excel only increased that much more. To everybody that knew of the shocking incident he had witnessed, they were surprised when they learned that Ryan had not become cynical or careless, but instead blossomed into a boy-man who had goals that were matched in size only by his ambitions to see them through. He had created a fundamental base in himself that wanted to see success within his short life, rather than allow himself to give into the doubt of humanity that plagued so many he had seen around him and settle for a trite life of restlessness and inability to cope.

         Midway through his senior year of high school, Ryan was as determined as ever not to fail. He had a dream of becoming a writer and wanted to see the world in order to better relate to what it had to offer. To begin that dream, he wanted to move to New York City. He had applied only to colleges there, completely disregarding others in his own home state of Nebraska or elsewhere. His friends thought he was being ridiculous, limiting his options and potential by being so picky.

         "How many colleges have you applied to?" he would reason with them. "If the answer is five, I have three times as many applications out as you. If it's three, you have no room to talk to me about being picky. If it's only one, well, you're the one being ridiculous, not me."

         Ryan considered himself rational and smart enough. As much as he wanted to be much more than average, though, his grades did not reflect his intelligence. He had tried many times to pull them up, but it wasn't until they were irreparably mediocre that he realized the importance of education. And, even then, he pushed away homework in favor of fiction reading, or school textbooks for autobiographies of famous people. His excuse was always, "Once I get to college, I'll start over." He planned on becoming the well-rounded person he had always dreamed of being once he reached the next level. For the moment, it was simply do-as-please.

         Even with this in mind, he learned quickly that life does not always go as planned. He had not become the genius his mom had wanted, or the all-sport athlete, or the respected community youth leader, involved in church, volunteer work, school clubs, and plays. All too often, his dreaming outweighed his capacity for action, leading to disappointment on all parts. He took life as it came and went, as well as he could, even when sickness took his mom's life. Afterward, he was left in the care of his rich aunt and uncle, parentless and lonely. For a long time following the loss of his mom, Ryan struggled to rediscover his own motivation. It was at just during this final year of his high school career when his hope found instant re-ignition. This was also the time when another unexpected event came, offering him a choice that would impact his life in a completely new way. A phone call from a friend interrupted one of his solitary nights in the middle of December as he sat in his room. Good news or bad news, Alan wasn't sure which.

         “Dave just texted me saying he's seen Darin downtown. He's over at a bar, The Underground. According to Dave, he's been drinking for hours and is starting to cause a lot of trouble."

         "Do you have your car?"

         "Yeah, why?"

         Jumping off of his bed, Ryan slipped into shoes as he continued to talk.

         "Can you pick me up? This might be my only chance."

         "Yeah, I suppose," Alan replied. "I'll be over in a sec."

         Ryan trembled with a mix of excitement and nerve. At first, he only stood, unsure of what his next move should be. His mind was in a frenzy, his thoughts bouncing off one another inside his head with the notion to not be tamed. Then, on the spur of a familiar idea, he rushed around his room, opening drawers and digging through clothes. When he was unable to find what he was looking for, he dashed around his bed, over to his end table. Upon opening the drawer, a slick black switchblade came into view, laying simply on top of many scattered pencils and papers. He picked it up and checked its blade. Looking at it closely, Ryan saw that it was still very sharp.

         He hesitated to slip it into his pocket, but then his eyes caught sight of the bench press bar that he had set up in the middle of his room, which was propped up on top of a Bible and a school textbook. He recalled the many afternoons that he would turn up loud, hard rock music and work his arms until they were numb, all to the angry thoughts that Darin provoked. His heart had raced in those workout sessions, with every hair on every inch of his body springing up in rage. All of the time that he had put towards improving his strength reminded him of the motive he had for the knife. Therefore, he met little other resistance to bringing it with him.

         Alan arrived shortly after, and Ryan promptly got into the car. Very few words were exchanged during the trip, leaving Alan to focus on driving and Ryan to contemplate his sudden change of plans.

         Downtown, streetlights reflected off small puddles in the dark streets of the town, without more than a handful of other drivers roaming about. Ryan rolled down his window, noticing that the air was still damp from the day's rain, which had only just recently ended. The car cruised along quietly, making only a small, continuous hum as it moved over the streets.

         Alan parked outside the bar, turning his car backside first into a slot so that they could watch through the front windshield. He turned the engine off and then rolled down his window, pulling a cigarette from a package beside him. After placing it between his lips and lighting it, he expectantly held out an open hand. Sighing, Ryan leaned back in order to reach into his pockets. Then, he pulled out his wallet and placed a twenty-dollar bill in Alan's hand.

         "Forty," said Alan. Ryan looked at him, seeing the light of the cigarette flashing off his eyes.

         "Huh? For what?"

         "Twenty for the usual gas, twenty 'cause I had to leave my girl's party for this."

         Their eyes locked sternly. Alan snapped his fingers impatiently.

         "You're what they call a 'necessary evil,' you know that?" Ryan's hand went back to his wallet, complying and handing over another bill.

         "Thanks," Alan replied as he crumpled the money down into his pocket.

         The car fell silent once again, except for the occasional flick of Alan's cigarette and the exhales that came with it. They watched the door of the bar closely, but nothing happened.

         "I'm tired of waiting," Ryan announced. "I'm going in."

         "They don't let minors in this late."

         "What if he doesn't come out 'til they close then?"

         "Forty covers that," Alan replied. "Do you have something better to do?"

         Ryan didn't answer. He kept looking at the door of the bar, expecting it to open anytime. He began to stare so hard that he swore he had seen it move, if even just a little. However, the door never opened. Ten minutes passed, then twenty, and still nothing happened. Alan yawned and leaned his chair back, crossing his arms to lay his head upon.

         Eventually, Ryan's mind began to wander. He started imagining what was going on inside, what the man was doing. Scenarios played out through his imagination.

         "Um, just one drink tonight," Darin had said to the pretty bartender. She had shot him an interested glance, but quickly tried to hide it afterwards. She had doubted his words. He was an alcoholic, something she could tell just by looking at him. Nonetheless, she had done as she was told.

         An hour passed and with it several beers. She was attending to men all over the place, but she occasionally glanced over at Darin as he chugged down can after can. A small smile crept onto her lips, but it vanished as quickly as it had come.

         Except for small murmurs every now and then, he sat quietly, leaning over the counter with his head hanging low. A few people looked his way, but they scoffed whisperingly to their friends and continued their game of pool.

         Then, after a few too many drinks, he suddenly felt that his thoughts were Scripture and he was a prophet. His breathing had changed, becoming very deep and loud. All at once, he slammed his hands down upon the counter and rose from his seat, standing tall. The bartender blinked with shock. Others turned their heads with curiosity.

         "Fuck this world, I say!" he had shouted, loud and slightly slurred. Nearby, some of the younger crowd giggled. A can had been tipped over as he had stood up, rolling on its side with beer flowing out of it. "I'd give this all away, in an instant! I don't fucking care!"

         "Sir," said the bartender, approaching him quickly, with sturdiness in her voice. "I think you've had enough."

         He had looked at her, gazing deep into her eyes, and lost all way of thought. It was as if he had become caught within them, finding a depth inside that had pulled him in and would not let him go.

         Then he suddenly found himself tumbling to one side, falling to the floor and crashing roughly down below. His head smacked hard on the wood, sending his thoughts in a jumble. As he looked around, his eyes rolled around in different directions, no longer under his control. He thought to reprimand them, to make them stop. His stomach was feeling very queasy and his entire body suffered from it.

         "Time to go, sir," someone with a deep voice had told him. Darin felt his body being lifted up, dragged along while only halfway standing as the people of the bar seemed to draw further away from him.

         "Leave me alone. I'm not drunk."

         "Sure, big fella," spoke the deep voice again. "Off you go."

         However, when Ryan's story ended with Darin being shown the door, still nothing had happened. He glanced down at his phone, discovering that an hour had passed, and then wondered if he hadn't been sleeping. Alan was deep in his own dreams, snoring quietly, this time with his arms folded across his chest. Ryan yawned and rubbed his eyes, but forced himself to stay awake and keep looking at the door.

         Then, all of a sudden, the door finally opened and out came a few people. They staggered around dizzily, laughing hysterically at each other as they left the bar. They seemed of no interest to him, and his widened eyes drooped back low. Behind them, though, was someone not from their group. Across the parking lot, his silhouetted form struggled to stay balanced as he walked out the door. Ryan quickly shook Alan awake.

         "Alan. Alan!"

         Alan jumped in his seat, startled.

         "Huh, what? What's going on?"

         "Look over there," Ryan told him, pointing at the person. "You think that's him?"

         "The hell if I know! What are you talking about?"

         Ryan began to speak, only to let his sentence trail off. Through the windshield, they saw the person suddenly stumble and fall flatly down onto the concrete. It seemed to happen so quickly, they couldn't even believe it at first.

         "Is he dead?" Ryan asked.

         "Probably just passed out. Why don't you go check it out?"

         "And what are you going to do, just sit here?"

         "You never said anything about me having to help you with this. Damn, this'll cost extra."

         "Come on," Ryan sternly ordered Alan as he opened the door and stepped out of the car. They both made their way across the quiet parking lot, its silence broken only by the harsh, cold wind and their footsteps as they scuffed across the pavement. When they reached the fallen man, his face was hidden from view, planted on the ground. He wore a cheap-looking brown leather jacket, with sleeves too small for his long and bulky arms. His jeans were covered in dirt and had true-torn holes on the knees. A strong smell of alcohol, sweat, and cigarettes emanated from his collapsed body as well.

         "So, what do we do?" asked Ryan.

         "Is this him?"

         "How would I know? I don't remember."

         "How can you not remember?" Alan irritably ran a hand through his hair. "You don't even know what he looks like but yet you want to kill him so bad?"

         "Was I wrong about his type?"

         Alan sighed, reaching habitually to his side for a cigarette, only to discover that they were still in his car.

         "Well," he said, pausing to find words, "let's lay him in the back seat. You get his legs, I'll--"

         "What if this isn't him? What if he turns out to be one of those hitchhikers that kill people and then steal their cars?"

         "Look," Alan said, turning aggressively to Ryan. "You're the one who wanted to come out here. This has gotta be the guy; I've never seen him here in my whole life and I know everybody here in town. Now, you're going to help me lift him into the back seat of my car, or I'm just going to leave and you can wait out here in the cold by yourself 'til he comes around."

         The two boys' breath was visible in the air. Ryan thought for a moment about defying Alan again, but he gradually realized that he had been too caught up in his own nervousness. Ryan kneeled down beside the fallen man and lifted him up around the arms under his slippery, wet jacket. He helped Alan move him towards his car. Ryan twitched as he felt his hands become wet under the man's armpits, frowning sourly. When they reached the car, Alan laid down the legs to open a back door, and then they both pushed him inside, sliding his heavy body across the seat. His head hit the opposite door, but he did not wake. Alan and Ryan exchanged glances. They both could tell what the other was thinking without saying a word. Then they got back into the car and drove off a couple blocks away, heading to the park downtown.