“Guess I’m set in my ways,” Charlie said. “Cheap and healthy. Like camping.”
“Haven’t eaten spaghetti since I got married,” Steve said. “But I take the kids camping.
They love it.”
Boyd’s smile faded. “I used to love it.”
Charlie picked up his fork. “Not any more?”
“Not when everybody’s getting on my case.”
“Steve’s got your best interest at heart, Boyd,” Charlie said.
Boyd shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t see it his way. The daily routine isn’t for me and Sheila.”
Charlie nodded and ate a forkful of spaghetti. “I know how you feel. But—”
Boyd tightened. “But it keeps the wolf from the door.”
Charlie put down his fork and stared at his plate. “Maybe you should set some limits.
Maybe you should say, ‘Okay, I’ll give it another five years. If I don’t make it by then—’”
Boyd grunted. “Jesus. You, too?”
“You’ve been at it almost twelve years, Boyd,” Steve said. “Maybe it’s time to get it out
of your system.”
Boyd pushed his plate away and sat back. “I’m just not a desk jockey. I’d suffocate.” He
ran his hand through his burnished hair. “You don’t understand, Steve. Some things you can’t get
out of your system. Ever since the first time I saw Dad play and saw all those people watching
him like he was magic or something, ever since then, I’ve had this vision of being up there with
the lights and the mikes and the sound equipment and my group behind me. And then the crowd
going crazy.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You never had dreams like that.”
“How do you know?” Steve said. “I had them, all right. But not the same as you. I saw
myself building computers and trackers and radars and missiles. I saw myself with a nice house
and a woman I loved and kids who would run out in the yard every night when I got home and
yell, ‘Daddy!’” He finished his last mouthful of spaghetti. “I worked my ass off to make it
happen. Had to do it by myself.”
Charlie winced.
TOM'S TALES