I’m Tired Of Being Tired Lil Baby
Stories similar to this that you might like too.
In the middle of a conversation, in mid-sentence.
“You’ve said this before.” He’d be saying something along these lines: “The fact is that there are some very powerful people in our government who have made it clear that they don’t want me to win this case. And that’s why I am asking you today to please help me by making sure that everyone else hears about it and knows about this story. It needs to go national right now.”
When he was done with the message, we would look up from our phones or tablets (or old-fashioned newspapers) and see his eyes looking back at us—the eyes that were always open when he had just finished talking.
They were wide-open, like animals, but the whites were red, which somehow added even more menace to them. Or maybe not because he was wearing contact lenses? Either way, he never blinked, not once during a phone call.
That was another thing we noticed: His voice was so deep and resonant and yet seemed so soft and gentle, as if it could make the most violent of words sound soothing, like water falling on your head on a hot day.
We thought about the last time we heard him speak; we couldn’t remember when it was or what exactly he was saying, only that it seemed like it might have been years ago—but no, just one week earlier when he called about his upcoming trial date. He wanted to make sure it went public soon, and that meant he needed us to send out a press release right away.
We tried to talk him down again. But he kept going, like someone who didn’t know how to stop himself after he’d already started. The first time it happened, we thought we misheard. We looked over at each other for confirmation and then listened again carefully.
No, he wasn’t joking. And the way he repeated it, it sounded like part of some kind of mantra he was using to keep himself calm. In fact, he hadn’t even stopped talking yet; he hadn’t gotten to the point that he had come to make.
After we got off the phone—”after we put that motherfucker on hold”—we both sat still for a while with blank expressions, thinking hard, trying to remember what he was talking about. At length, we shook our heads and said: “It sounds important.”
At the office, we talked over coffee until lunchtime, then drove together to a Mexican restaurant near his house. As usual, he ordered two things at once: a large Carne Seca burrito and a pitcher of horchata, the cinnamon drink that tastes like it comes straight from Mexico.
It tasted good, and he drank almost all of it, though not as quickly as his meal. He asked about our families—our kids were in school. “How about you?” he asked. We nodded. Then: “What do you think I should say to my judge about this new trial date? You’ve seen the evidence—you tell me.”
He spoke slowly, deliberately. After he ate, he told us to take a break; he wanted to show us something. He left the table. When he came back, we found him standing at the counter in the kitchen. Behind the cash register was a stack of folded bills. A few dollars and twenties, tens and fives. “Look,” he said. “This money has been taken from the hands of those who need it most.”
His tone was casual and friendly. He didn’t seem angry at all. Just tired, as if he had spent too much time thinking about it recently. He handed the money to each of us. We took them without saying anything.
“Now,” he said, “I have a favor to ask of you. I need you to get the word out to every reporter I’ve ever worked with, and also to everyone you can think of that I have worked with, including writers whose work you admire, anyone who might possibly hear about this story, and especially to your own friends and family.”
“But, Mr. Bregman…”
“And if there’s any way that you can reach out to others, I’m counting on you. Get their numbers for me. Call them. Send emails. Text messages. Use social media. Whatever.” He paused briefly, then added: “Please.”
After that, he went back to his desk. We followed, and then sat side by side on the sofa, watching his screen where he had been working: the same photo, but now the date and name were different, and he was talking directly to them.
He said, “The reason I’m making these videos is simple: If people hear the truth and see the proof for themselves—if they read it on a computer screen, watch it on a TV monitor—then it will be too late for them to deny me my rights.” He turned around and looked at us, smiling. “And it won’t matter whether or not I have money. This is the one thing in all the world that I can give freely.”
We were quiet.
He continued: “In the meantime, you’ll continue to be paid for your work by the company. We’re still paying you, so don’t worry about your checks. We’re also giving you more than what you are owed because we believe in your integrity.”
Then he turned his chair toward us and smiled again, his eyes twinkling. “You deserve this.”
We looked at each other. Then, after a moment’s silence: “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet, okay?” He waved his hand as if waving away an idea or a feeling that he knew could only bring bad luck. “Because this may very well turn out to be my last job.”
***
That night when we got home, we made dinner together—salmon steaks, baked potatoes with butter and sour cream, green beans sauteed with garlic and olive oil—and we talked about work, about our kids, about nothing.
She played piano in the living room while we cleaned up the kitchen afterward. She was wearing jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt under a flannel shirt, and a pair of cowboy boots with a silver dollar tucked into her sock. The house felt warm.
And safe. I thought about that for a while. Then I remembered his promise and how he would need us to keep it—how important it was that we find the right reporters to make his case. In silence, I realized that this wasn’t just a chance meeting between strangers who happened to run into each other in a bar, but that we were really going to help someone, someone important.
That meant doing more than telling the truth, which is easy enough, and far easier than hiding the truth: It was the first time that I had ever done something like this before, that I had ever stood up for another person, even if it was only over a meal, that I had ever truly helped anyone else with their problems. It felt good to remember that.
When we walked past our son’s room, I heard him playing his video games. His favorite character was always the same, the one with the big head and short arms and legs; it made sense. We had already discussed this once, how he liked them, how they were violent and sometimes scary and maybe a little weird.
I listened to the sounds coming from his room, wondering if we should tell him what we were doing. We weren’t sure we wanted to, and he was probably too young to understand anyway. But I knew she wouldn’t agree to that until she spoke to him herself, and I hoped that she would come to her senses soon.
So I stopped outside his door and called out, “Hey, buddy! Mommy and Daddy want to talk to you.” There was no response, so I opened the door to let myself in, and immediately I saw that he was in his bed and staring straight ahead. As I closed the door behind me, I said: “Hi, bud. I hope you’re having fun.”
Nothing.
“It’s almost dinner time, though!” He didn’t react at all. “Do you know what happens at dinner? You get to eat food that we made ourselves, and we talk about stuff.”
Again, nothing. Not even a blink. I wondered if he had been listening at all. Or if he’d understood a word we’d said.
She came out of the master bedroom with her hair pulled back tightly and her lips red. “Didn’t hear a thing,” I said.
“Oh. Well, maybe he was distracted. He’s been working hard today.” She put down the towel she was carrying. “Maybe we should wait a few minutes.”
I nodded. “Okay, hon.” I looked around for a clock and spotted one on his nightstand: it was five thirty now. She went back into the bathroom without saying anything further. Our son did not move or look up. I sat down beside him and patted him on the knee.
He gave me a blank stare and then slowly turned to face me. “You know, buddy, some people think there are monsters under the bed, or in closets, or in dark corners of parks—that sort of thing.”
His face showed no emotion. I leaned closer to him, looking him directly in the eye. I was trying to make sure he knew that he could trust us. “And you know what?” I asked, and then I told him about the company, how it made money by creating weapons and using them, and how the soldiers were fighting aliens that had landed on Earth.
And that these were not real monsters, but machines that made them do terrible things. “This place”—I gestured with my finger—”was making the machines. They don’t exist anymore. And they’ll never return.” I paused. “So if you see one again—if you meet one again—don’t be afraid.
Because they won’t hurt you.” Then I stood up and left. When we had finished eating, she went into his room and closed the door. After dinner, I took a bath in our upstairs bathroom; when I was done she joined me, naked, her skin glistening under the water, and we sat in the tub together while she washed me gently, with a lot of soap.
“Are you okay, dear?” she whispered after a while.
“I’m fine,” I lied.
She nodded and kissed me. “What do you think we should tell him next?”
“We’ll figure it out later. Right now we have to keep going.”
***
After our discussion with the kid, we went downstairs to find him sitting on his living room floor with three video game controllers set up in front of him, two for his eyes and one for his mouth. The television screen was showing a video of the battle between a man dressed in camouflage and another wearing armor.
Both were carrying heavy weapons and moving swiftly through the woods, and both seemed very much alive. Our son was watching intently. “Can I play?” he asked.
“No way!” My wife glared at him from across the room, as if she had caught him playing something he shouldn’t. “That’s enough violence for your brain, isn’t it? Why don’t you take those out and go run around outside, and then we’ll see where we’re going tomorrow.”
He frowned but obediently picked up the controllers and put them down on the coffee table. For a moment I thought he might protest further, and so I hurried to say, “Don’t worry about it! We can play some of this other stuff later.”
But he just walked away, his bare feet making small clacking noises as he walked past me. When I got into the kitchen, my wife was putting dishes in the dishwasher. I poured myself a glass of wine and then watched her from the doorway, taking slow sips of the drink.
When she noticed me watching her, I pretended to pour more into my glass, then walked over to join her. I took her hands in mine and kissed her briefly, then took her hand and led her back into the living room. She turned on the television; it was only seven o’clock now.
I found an empty spot on the couch, pulled her down beside me, and turned the volume down low. We were silent for a while. “How is he?” she finally asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “But if he keeps staring at screens like that, he probably isn’t getting much sleep.”
“Do you think we should have told him earlier?”
“Maybe. But if we waited until tonight, he would have missed dinner. And now he’s probably starving.” I looked over at the kitchen counter, where the food had disappeared so quickly. A few crumbs were left on the plates we’d used to eat it, along with the knife and fork I had taken off his plate.
She didn’t seem to notice them. “We should talk about what happens next,” I continued. “What do you want to do?”
“There’s no hurry. Let him get some rest first.”
“We don’t need to stay here long,” I said. “Just overnight.”
“I think we should wait until next year,” she said quietly, almost whispering.
“Why?”
She shrugged and looked away from me. “Something tells me this isn’t a good place for him right now.”
“I agree. It’s dangerous. There are bad people here. We should go before they come back.” I felt suddenly cold all over and took a deep breath to steady myself.
“You know what I’m talking about?”
I nodded and tried to look confident even though I was trembling. “Yes. I’ve been seeing them ever since we arrived.”
“The ghosts of the children?”
“No.”
“They’re real,” she said after a moment. “I saw them too.”
“Where did you see them?”
“I’m not sure. All these rooms. This whole house, actually. They’re everywhere.”
I nodded. “Let’s try to get some sleep now. You should start unpacking, and maybe take a shower while I finish packing our suitcases.”
“Okay.”
I held out my hands toward her and she came closer, and when she was close enough I pulled her into the bedroom. We fell asleep together, naked except for our underwear. Later on I woke up to see her sitting on the edge of the bed, still in the same clothes from yesterday. “Did you fall asleep?” I whispered.
“Not really,” she mumbled without looking up. “It’s hard to sleep when you don’t know who you’re sleeping with.”
“Sorry.” I sat up slowly and took off my shirt and pants, then reached for hers. As soon as we were both fully clothed again, she started to pack up her clothes and shoes. Then we both got into bed. She turned onto her side facing away from me and lay there for a while, breathing heavily. After a moment I rolled over to face her.
“Hey,” I whispered.
“Hi,” she murmured, turning over to look at me. The moonlight shone through the curtains, and her hair was wet and shining in its reflection. She turned away again immediately and put her arm over her eyes. I moved toward her and touched her shoulder gently.
She took one hand away from her face and laid it on the pillow beside her. Our heads were close to touching, and I could feel the heat coming from her skin. My fingers ran lightly across her neck, then up to her chin.
“What did the ghosts tell you?” she said after a minute. “When you saw them?”
I shook my head. “They didn’t say anything. It was just their eyes and that terrible feeling of dread. It’s hard to describe… something dark and evil, but with a hint of light behind it.”
“You know,” she said quietly, “we could leave.” She paused for a second and took my hand. “As soon as you want.”
The idea had never occurred to me, but once she suggested it, I knew she was right. In fact, if we hadn’t already decided to leave today, we might not have thought about it at all, since we weren’t expecting it to be so dangerous here.
But now everything was different. Now we knew they were going to kill him. If the ghosts showed us what was happening, it had to mean they wanted us to stop him.
“If you’re sure…” I said finally, trying not to sound uncertain.
“Of course,” she said firmly. “We’ll go tomorrow night, and we won’t turn around until we get outside this town. Whatever else happens, we have to keep moving.”
“And then?”
“Then we find another place where there are fewer kids like this, and we live the rest of our lives together in safety.”
I laughed softly. “That sounds wonderful.”
“It will happen soon enough, you’ll see. Once things settle down, we can move somewhere more permanent.”
“Like a little apartment or cottage, perhaps?”
She chuckled and pushed me onto my back. “A castle.”
The End