“Purpose,” Luke murmured, recalling the past three years in a series of deteriorating snapshots. “I hear you, Floyd. I do. But my life is in the shitter, and no one is giving me a chance to get out.”

“You make your own chances,” Floyd said, forming a loose fist, thumping it once, lightly, off the tabletop.

“Not that easy. I can’t land an audition for anything but low-end voice work. And I won’t score a big role without an agent.”

“Purpose doesn’t need a goddamn agent,” Floyd snapped. “Start a charity, read to old folks, write a novel. Jesus Christ, do something.”

Luke reached across the table and placed his hand on top of Floyd’s, signifying that the message had been received, and that he was grateful. Floyd’s reaction to Luke’s attempted suicide had been exactly what Luke needed, neither too damning nor overly mawkish.

There was more to it, though. Luke looked at Floyd’s softly trembling mouth, then into his discolored eyes, and accepted the truth he’d been avoiding for the last hour or so—that this was their final afternoon together. Floyd’s discourse wasn’t just the wisdom of a man who’d been around the block a few times. It was a parting lesson. A loving goodbye.

An understanding passed between them. It came in silence, and Luke found comfort in it. He didn’t give voice to the many sorrows chasing through him. The only thing that mattered was that moment, and holding on to it, somehow.

“To hell with it,” he said, his hand still placed on top of Floyd’s. “I’m going to get another drink. A real goddamn drink. You’re welcome to join me.”

“Aw shit, I shouldn’t,” Floyd responded. “But this late in the day, what difference does it make?”

Luke went to the washroom, using those few minutes away from Floyd to shed a few tears. On the way back, he ordered a pitcher of beer and two large bourbons—to hell with driving; he’d Uber home and pick up his car in the morning—and the two friends drank together until early evening, talking only about the things that complemented their shape.

And as always, classic soul filled the background. Floyd’s eyes occasionally glossed over and he would gently touch his ear, indicating not just a top-ten hit or a musician, but a lifetime of harmony and achievements and love. The music of living.

“I played on this.”

4
Making Moves

“You lonely, baby girl? You can come home anytime.”

She was two thousand miles from the people she loved, from the neighborhoods, the scenery, the comforts (and discomforts) she had known for all of her twenty-four years. Not a day went by when Kitty didn’t think about going home.

“You hear me? Anytime.”

“I hear you, Mama.”