The funeral home was quiet. Everyone had gone home except for the widow and her young son. Just outside the funeral home’s backdoor was a concrete landing and ramp leading to a small parking lot. Nearby sat a wood picnic table, underneath, the widow’s son, James Roberts, played with his Batman action figure.
It had been a rough year for James and his mother. His father went missing 7 months prior and the body was found just one week ago. Years of doing business with shady organizations sometimes catches up to people -- his father was no exception.
The months of not knowing whether her husband was alive or not took its toll on James’ mother. She spent most nights crying and most days holed up in her room. Entire weeks past when she didn’t say a single word to James.
James wasn’t handling the events well either -- although you wouldn’t know it to look at him. He’s always been good at keeping things close to his chest. His imagination was his outlet for his feelings and his Batman action figure was his best tool.
James sat in his personal, imaginary batcave, although some might see it as the underside of a picnic table, unraveling the schemes and clues from The Riddler’s latest caper. Just as Batman was preparing to make his way to the evildoer’s secret hideout, a man wearing a long, faded trench coat sat down at the picnic table -- his back to James. His coat looked like he had found it in a forgotten corner of a vintage shop. The edges were frayed and there was a hole in the left pocket.
“You must be James,” said the stranger, turning his head to the side and looking down through the corner of his eye. “Sorry to hear about your dad.”
James, still sitting under the table and holding his toy, didn’t answer. He almost thought if he pretended the man wasn’t there he would just disappear.
“You’re going to be all right, kid,” the man said. “The years ahead are going to be tough on you and especially your mom.” He rubs the palm of his hand with his thumb, his head lowered toward the ground. “She still loves you, just remember that.”
James looks down at his toy. Trying to wish the man away. He looks up, and as if his wish was answered, the man was gone.
###
The following seven years were hard for James. Now 15 years old we find him once again at the backdoor of the funeral home where we mourned the loss of his father. James sits on top of the table, feet resting on the seat. A cigarette barely hangs between the index and middle finger of his right hand.
“She did love you, you know,” said the man wearing a trenchcoat and a fedora leaning against the nearby tree.
“Yeah, sure,” James said in response, still looking towards the ground, cigarette smoke raising past his face. “You one of her friends? God knows she had a lot of those.”
The man in the trenchcoat walked over to the table, sitting against the end, his back to James.
“No,” the man said. “I’m not a friend. We haven’t spoken in years actually. The names Jay.”
Jay reaches out his hand towards James. James stares at the outstretched hand but doesn’t lift his own to shake.
“Are you a detective?” James asks. “The trenchcoat and hat make you look like some sort of old timey cop.”
“Nah, I’m not a cop,” Jay responds as he pulls his hand back in, rubbing fingers almostly nervously. “I’m just a stranger who wanted you to know how much your mom loved you. Through all the drunken nights and hopping from couch to couch, she always loved you. I just wanted to make sure you knew that.”
Jay turns away from James and starts walking away, but stops just before rounding the corner of the funeral home. He turns around back to James.
“You’re gonna burn your hand, kid,” he says as he turns back around and out of sight.
Confused, James looks around as if searching for the man’s meaning. Suddenly, a hot burning sensation hits his middle finger. The cigarette has worn down enough to leave a severe burn.
“Fuck!” James says as he throws the remains of the cigarette to the ground.
###
Inside the small studio apartment sits a tattered old bed. Glass bottles litter the floor, it’s surprising anyone could ever walk through this room. It’s dark except a sliver of light coming in through the window, the result of a black-out curtain with a slash cut down its middle. A thin trail of smoke rises through the light. It’s source is the end of a cigarette dangling from a man’s hand, inches above the worn mattress upon which he’s sleeping.
The man in question is fast asleep. Maybe stoned out of his mind is a better way to put it. The heat from the cigarette begins to create a small black mark on the mattress as a hole appears, growing larger but the second.
Suddenly, a large boot kicks his hand aside and stomps on the burning mattress. The man, after being violently awoke, can still barely keep his eyes open. He tilts his head back to counteract his heavy eyelids, still the world remains a blurred mess. All he can see is a large figure, one solid mass appearing before him.
The light switches on, momentarily blinding him and causing him to recoil. As he regains his sight and at least one of his eyes begins to open, the figure is nowhere to be seen. He turns his head from side and side until it is suddenly met with a tall glass of water and a familiar arm.
A man stands in front of him wearing a trenchcoat and a fedora offering a glass of water, almost insisting on it.
“You look like shit, James,” says the mass of tan standing in front of him. “Drink the water.”
James takes the water and drinks slowly. He can feel his tongue absorbing the water, like a mound of sand in the desert. He pulls the empty glass from his lips as he gasps for air.
“Thanks,” James says. “Now who the fuck are you?”
Jay walks the glass over to the small corner sink, placing it gently inside.
“Don’t recognize me?” Jay asks him. “Nothing ringing a bell?”
“No. No. I recognize you,” James answers. “But who the fuck are you? You keep coming around every few years, but you always look the same. Am I crazy? Have I always been crazy?”
Jay kneels in front of James so they are at eye level with each other.
“No,” Jay says with a calm voice. “You’re not crazy. What you are is at your lowest point. But things will improve. The world won’t always be your personal hell scape. Every decision you make won’t feel like it’s the wrong choice. The people passing you on the street won’t always be there to sabotage you. One day it won’t feel like they all hate you. You won’t want to spend your evenings numbing yourself to the world and your mornings hiding from the sun. And it's going to happen soon. Things will improve. Trust me.”
Jay stands up and removes his fedora, throwing it onto the bed. He pulls off the trenchcoat, removing his wallet from its pocket before tossing it on top of the hat.
“Fuck it,” he says looking at his wallet and adding it to the pile. “You can have this too.”
“People care about you,” Jay says with a heavy sigh. “You’re worth having around. And I’m not the only one who thinks so.” Jay turns toward the door but pauses as he places a hand on its handle.
“You’re going to be all right, kid,” he says as he exits the room.
James remains in his position, momentarily unable to move. Considering everything that just happened and the suddenness of the situation. He turns to look at the pile left behind. He picks up the wallet. Examining it. Opening it. Jay pulls out the license kept in the front pocket and reads the name: James Roberts.