Paul Mattison stood in the bed of his old pickup truck, as he sifted through tools and other debris.

When he found the tire iron, he picked it up with both hands. He closed his eyes and took a deep

breath, as his grip tightened—almost squeezing the dirty metal rod. It felt awkward at first, but after a

moment it became part of him—like a mighty, all-powerful third arm. It would only take one swift strike

to the skull, he thought, as he opened his eyes and examined the ominous weapon.

            He closed the gate to his pickup and climbed back into the driver’s seat. He dropped the tire iron by his feet, and returned his attention to the man in the sharp, blue suit, who had just parked his BMW in the empty lot. He glanced at the picture in the paper and then at the man—two, three, maybe four times.

            He finally convinced himself—without doubt—that the man was Ray Hensley. He looked a little different than the picture in the paper—his jaw not as square, his blue eyes neither as bright nor as wide—but it was the same man. Paul had held a fictive image of Ray’s face in his mind for the past four years. That morning, The Woodside Journal—the daily paper delivered to his doorstep every morning—brought him the real thing. 

            The story in the arts section was impressive. It was the feature article and contained three pictures, one close-up and two shots of Ray in action on stage. It chronicled his background, explaining how he graduated from Harvard Law and was a successful Massachusetts attorney. The main focus of the story, however, was his remarkable talent as an actor. It detailed how Ray had electrified the summer theatre season in Cape Cod for the past six years. According to the article, he used his natural gifts as a performer, his striking good looks, and his personal charm to forever burn himself into the memories of grateful theatergoers.

            There was even some personal information about him, including the fact that he lived and practiced law in Cambridge. It also mentioned his recent engagement to fellow thespian, Jill Munro. Paul’s stomach twisted into knots after reading this, but at least—finally—he knew for sure.

For the past four years, he had wondered if Ray and Jill were still together. Were they married? Did they have kids? If she wasn’t with Ray, what was she doing? These questions had tortured his mind, but now, he had all the answers professionally written for him in his Saturday paper.

Paul relived the night Jill left him almost every day. He had always believed that relationships ended gradually—a slow deterioration between people who drift further apart each day. But for Paul, the end struck like lightning out of a clear sunny sky.

She normally got back to their apartment about ten-thirty on her rehearsal nights. But on that night, it was one in the morning and she still hadn’t returned. The fact that it was a Wednesday, and both Paul and Jill had to work the next day, made it seem even more unusual. He was too worried to sleep.

He sat in the living room of their tiny Medford apartment, mindlessly flipping through TV channels. Finally, at one-fifteen she walked in the door. The anxiety evacuated his body when he saw she was unharmed. He expected a reasonable excuse, maybe the director demanding they work late, a flat tire—something ordinary.                         

He had no idea what was to come. In fact, he was so oblivious to their imminent demise as a couple that there was a diamond engagement ring hidden in his desk. He spent the previous two weeks plotting the perfect way to propose.

She took three steps into the apartment and sat at the small kitchen table. She looked pale and confused, like she was stoned or sick with a fever. Her body slumped forward as if she had no backbone. She looked at him, her eyes full of wetness.

“What the hell happened to you?” he asked as he took a step towards her.

She held up her arm gesturing for him to stop. He froze, as he watched her look down at the floor. He thought she might vomit then, but she recovered. She put her arm down and looked at him again.      

She spoke slowly with a shaky voice. “I was with Ray Hensley.” She paused. Paul stood motionless as he attempted to understand what she meant. He didn’t know the name Ray Hensley. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.” She sobbed a little and then continued, “I’m so sorry, Paul, but I’m in love with him.”  She sobbed some more and then abruptly jumped to her feet. “I have to go.”

She ran out of the apartment. Paul didn’t chase her, but watched from the window as her car vanished into the darkness of the parking lot.

Ray finished fidgeting with things in the trunk of his car. He threw a duffel bag over his shoulder, and set off towards the theatre. Paul watched him pass through a tiny opening in the thicket that hid the parking lot from the road. Paul re-parked his truck, leaving it in the far back corner of the lot—the rear end sticking into some bushes. 

Paul followed Ray’s path through the thicket, across the street, and to the front of The Woodside Community Theatre. It was a simple, old, wooden building. Not that spectacular, Paul thought, but the article hailed it as one of the finest theatres on The Cape.

He had only attended one play in his life—something forgettable that his mother dragged him to when he was young. He wondered if his simple attire of jeans and a tee shirt was acceptable inside. Although he scrubbed his hands thoroughly, there was still some residue of grease acquired from his long day of working under cars. He worried that his gruff appearance might make him stand out.   

He walked through the front door into a small room full of old furniture—maybe antiques of some sort, he assumed. The dozens of play posters covering the wall gave it away as a theatre. There was no box office to speak of, just a card table with a smiling gray-haired woman sitting behind it. He expected something different—maybe fancier.

“Welcome to The Woodside Theatre,” she announced when Paul entered. “Would you like a ticket for tonight’s performance?”

“Yes, just one ticket please,” Paul answered.

“That’ll be fifteen dollars.” He paid her. She put the money in a small, metal box, and handed him a ticket. “Seating is general admission. The play begins at eight and runs for approximately ninety minutes. There’s no intermission for this show.” She smiled; he smiled back.

He looked at his watch and saw that it was six-thirty. He would have to kill some time. He was about to thank her and leave when she asked: “Did you know tonight’s show is a one-man performance?”   

“I wasn’t aware of that, ma’am.”

“One actor plays fifteen different characters all in the same play. Have you ever heard of Ray Hensley?”

“I happened to see the piece in today’s paper about him.”

“He’s amazing. We’re so happy to have him here.”

“I’m looking forward to it, ma’am,” he said politely and strolled out the front door. There was a public beach about a mile down the road, so Paul made the walk. He relaxed on a rock and watched the sun slip closer to the horizon.

He didn’t want to think about her anymore. After four years, he was embarrassed that he could not forget her. He was proud of how strong he was during their breakup. He made no heroic efforts to keep her from Ray; he simply let her go—no crying, no screaming, he couldn’t even recall a fight. He felt that there was nothing he could do to change her mind, so he kept his dignity and did not try.

He remained in their apartment until the lease ran out, and then found a new place to escape the memories of her. Her belongings that she did not return to claim were deposited in the town dump. He disposed of everything that might create even the slightest remembrance of her. He saved only the engagement ring, which he planned to sell someday, and one photograph. He stored them together in a shoebox, which sat on a shelf in his bedroom closet.

When he returned to the theatre, he found a few audience members milling around the entrance. This concerned him, as he wanted to avoid a surprise meeting with Jill—if indeed she was to be a part of the audience. He pulled his baseball cap low on his forehead, put on his sunglasses, and made his way into the theatre.

It was still early and only a few people were in the rising, stadium-style seats, which faced the proscenium stage. Paul climbed to the back row and moved to the far corner, where he slumped in his seat—an insidious intruder hidden amongst the innocent patrons.

He watched the two hundred-seat theatre fill to near capacity. His eyes scanned the face of each new person as they entered. Her absence would make it easier for him to complete his objective, but there was a part of him that burned to see her. And finally—five minutes before curtain—she appeared.

He remembered her with agonizing specificity. She wore her jet-black hair slightly shorter, but it fell down the sides of her face as it did four years earlier. Her brown eyes and thin lips accented her high cheekbones, as he remembered. The four years had been good to her; her beauty was unchanged, he thought.  

Seeing her again forced him to think of the one picture he saved. He uncovered the picture from its hiding spot only in his most desperate moments, when the pain he hid during the early part of their separation overwhelmed him—like poison seeping through his veins.

He took the picture of her during a vacation in Cancun. She was sitting on the balcony of their hotel room after a few hours at the beach. Her sun-browned legs rested on the railing in front of her. With a beach towel wrapped around her neck and wet hair, she looked at the camera with a brilliant smile.            

When he looked at the photograph his heart clenched like a fist. He hated himself when he looked at it, and each time was a personal battle lost. He fantasized about destroying the picture, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. There were a few occasions when he crumpled it up, but he always smoothed it out later. His stoic reaction to her leaving was replaced by something he could not accept. The photograph haunted him, tortured him, and during his worst moments it excited him.  

He was disgusted after the time he touched himself. The act of pleasuring himself to her picture was the ultimate defeat. Although no one knew he did this, he still felt humiliated. When he finished, he lay on his bedroom carpet and cried the tears he fought back for so long. Then, he ripped her picture into several pieces and began a mission to forget her forever. 

But still, he couldn’t find the strength to dispose of the ripped photograph, so he let it lay on his carpet for a week. When weakness overcame him again, he found himself taping the picture back together as tears rolled down his face. His lowest moment ever, he believed. 

Seeing her again was surreal. He sunk low in his seat and pulled his cap down his forehead. As she made her way further into the theatre, he noticed that her mother was with her. An usher led them to two reserved seats in the front row. Paul relaxed when they settled into their seats.

The lights went down, and the great Ray Hensley appeared on down-center stage. As the ticket lady said, it was a one-man show. Ray treated the audience to an amazing theatrical experience. He jumped from one character to another with ease, and shifted between dramatic and comedic moments on a dime. His stentorian voice filled every inch of the auditorium with perfect inflection.

The audience watched with wonder and delight. He worked the stage like a master, and glided across the floorboards with the grace of a ballerina. Paul felt awkward and clumsy watching the actor’s elegant performance. In Ray’s world, Paul was a Neanderthal.

The show ended to thunderous applause and a standing ovation. Paul crept along the back row unnoticed during the obsequious tribute. He descended the stairs and stealthily disappeared out the exit. He crossed the street swiftly and made it to the now crowded parking lot well ahead of anyone else.

He approached Ray’s BMW, took out a pocketknife, and slashed the rear left tire. He climbed into his truck, clutched the tire iron, and waited. It wasn’t long before the audience made their way to the lot. The satisfied crowd departed one car at a time. Paul wondered where they were all going—maybe a late dinner, a couple of cocktails, miniature golf, a walk on the beach, or perhaps they were just going home. Paul wished he was he was pulling out of the lot like they were, and not waiting to bash open Ray Hensley’s skull.             

When the mass departure ended, only two cars remained—Ray’s BMW and a blue Jetta. Ten minutes later, Ray, Jill, and her mother strolled into the lot. Ray was back in the blue suit and held the duffel bag again. They all looked happy and relaxed. They walked to the Jetta and chatted there for a while.

After a few minutes, Ray kissed Jill’s mother on the cheek and helped her into the passenger’s seat. Ray and Jill embraced in a passionate hug and kiss. Then, she sat behind the wheel of the Jetta and drove off. Ray sauntered back to his car—alone in the parking lot.

He jumped into his BMW and started the engine. Paul turned the ignition of his truck and flipped on the headlights. He drove straight towards Ray’s car and stopped a few yards short of the driver’s side door. He watched Ray shade his eyes from the truck’s headlights, as he struggled to see who was there. Paul left the tire iron in the truck and climbed out, calling to him, “Hey, buddy!”

Ray lowered his window and made eye contact with Paul. “Yes, what can I do for you?”

“You got a flat tire.”

“What?” Ray said, sounding alarmed. He shut of his car and jumped out quickly. Paul pointed to the flat tire. “This is awful. I’m supposed to meet my fiancée and her mother at a restaurant. They just left; they think I’m right behind them.”

“Tough luck,” Paul offered, as he stood casually with his hands in his pockets.

Ray took out a cellular phone and fumbled with his wallet as he said, “I suppose I’ll have to call Triple A.”

“What are you gonna do that for?” Paul asked.

“What?” Ray replied and stopped looking through his wallet.

“I’ll be quicker if you just change the tire yourself. It’ll only take a few minutes and then you can meet your girl before it gets too late. Do you have a spare?”

“I don’t know,” Ray answered.

“You must in a nice new car like this. Why don’t you pop the trunk and we’ll take a look.” Ray opened the trunk and Paul quickly located the spare tire. “There you are. Just throw this baby on there and you’re good to go.”

“I guess you’re right,” Ray said. “Would you be willing to help me?”

Paul paused, a little surprised, and then said, “Sure. Let me angle my headlights at your flat, so we can see. Why don’t you get started.” Paul re-positioned his truck. He purposely blocked the view of the BMW from anyone who might enter the lot. Paul got out of his truck, but this time he took the tire iron with him.

He slowly approached Ray from behind. He was on all fours trying to piece together the jack. Paul stopped about a step behind him, and watched.

He studied the back of his head. He imagined what might happen after he hit him. He fantasized about his skull breaking open, and the puddle of blood that would form on the concrete. He squeezed the tire iron with both hands and took a deep breath.

He thought about Jill, and the night she ended their relationship. He thought about the ring hidden in his closet. He pictured himself on the floor of his bedroom with her picture. Ray had come into his world and destroyed the most precious part of his existence. Now, with one quick strike, he hoped to fill the blackness that lived in his heart.

Paul took a half step towards him and raised the weapon. Suddenly, Ray let out a gasp of frustration as pieces of the jack clanged together. Paul withdrew a step and lowered the tire iron.

“I have a confession to make,” Ray said as he turned to Paul, “I’ve never changed a tire in my life. I have no idea what I’m doing. Will you help me?”

Paul could not understand this. How could a grown man not know how to change a tire? How could he have not at least seen others do it and understand the extremely simple process? Ray Hensley was not the man he had imagined.   

Ray continued to look at Paul, waiting for his response. When Paul realized this he said, “ We have to loosen the lug nuts before you jack the car up.” Ray looked at him confused.

Paul took over, and used the tire iron to loosen the lug nuts. He assembled the jack in an instant and used it to lift the car off the ground. Paul worked quickly and Ray moved to the background where he watched. In just a few minutes, Paul had changed the tire.

He tossed his tire iron into the bed of his truck and wiped his hands on his jeans. Ray approached him with two twenty-dollar bills. “Thank you so much. I have to run off to meet my fiancée, but please take this.”

“I don’t need your money.”

“I don’t mean to imply that you need money. But I really appreciate your help. I’d just like to show my gratitude.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Paul said as he arranged a few things in the bed of his truck.

Ray took out a business card and handed it to Paul. “I’m an attorney. If you ever have any need for legal services or advice, please call me. I’d love the chance to return this favor.”

Paul took the card and stuffed it into his pocket. Ray extended his arm for a handshake. Paul flashed him his palm, showing the dirt from the tire.

“I’ll get you dirty for the restaurant. You should get going. Your girl will be worried if you’re much longer,” Paul said as he climbed in his truck. He drove off quickly as Ray waved goodbye.

When Paul returned to his apartment, he went right for the shoebox. For the first time, he touched the box without feeling a knot in his gut or chest. He took out the ring and placed it on his kitchen table—tomorrow he would try to sell it.

He held the picture in front of his face and looked at it closely. He realized that the provenance of his pain was not real. Ray had never entered his world; their worlds were a galaxy apart.

He held the picture over his sink, and lit it on fire. He waited until the flames almost burnt his fingers before he dropped it. In the end there was nothing left, save a few black ashes harmlessly dancing in the bottom of his sink.

Copyright (c) 2004 by Dan Smith