short-story fiction furry sawtooth
MC has to call 5150 on friend in manic episode in CA
- Gets a text while studying at B&B, turns into a call
- Gets in contact with others around other character
- Organizes a bit of a help squad
- Things go way south and calls 5150
- Left with guilt over whether that was the right thing to do
[2:03 PM] Jason> I need to call you
The buzz of my phone came before I could dismiss the notification on the laptop. I swiped down on the button to answer and murmured quietly, “Hold on, Jace, need to step outside, I’m in the coffee shop.”
“That’s okay, I need to walk somewhere more private, anyhow. This is too important to be overheard.
There was a moment’s shared rustling as I saved my work, closed the lid on my laptop, and packed it away. From the sounds on the other end of the line, Jason was walking through woods or tall grass, puffing into the mouthpiece. The breathing was quick, and not totally even.
I made my way outside The Book and the Bean and walked to one of the planters squatting stolidly in the middle of the plaza. Tuesdays were quiet. Hopefully that level of privacy would work on my end. If things got weird, I figured I could always duck into my car.
“Okay, what’s up, bud?”
“I need you to promise me that this won’t make it to anyone else, least of all my parents, and especially especially least of all my mom.”
I laughed, “I’ve never talked with your mom, wouldn’t have the faintest clue of how to reach her.”
A breath, shaky, and then, “Alright, good. Keep it that way. Promise you’re telling the truth?”
“Hell, Jason, of course I promise. I have zero desire to ever interact with her. You’ve never said anything positive about her.”
“Well, alright.” There was a long moment’s silence on the other end. “I think she’s trying to keep me quiet about this.”
“About what?”
“About my dad.”
I frowned down at the brick paving stones. “I mean, isn’t he dead? Not like you’ve never had anything positive to say about him, either. What’s up?”
“I’m pretty sure he was in the CIA. Or at least on one of their lists.”
“What?” I laughed, then cringed. The fox sounded serious, and I doubt that is quite the reaction he was looking for. More soberly, I asked, “What kind of list? Wasn’t he just a construction worker or something?”
Jason lowered his voice, but it quickly grew louder once more. “That’s what he always told us! That’s what mom always told me, too, that she met him on the job, right? She said he was always working, and that he always came home dirty, but never told her what he was doing during the day.” Louder, and also going up in pitch. He sounded shrill and panicked. “But I think she was just keeping his secret! I think he was actually doing some covert stuff with the CIA! Here! You know they’re supposed to only work on foreign soil, right? Like, the FBI is for the US, they’re supposed to spy on other countries, but he was working here, right? It’s not like he was flying to Cuba or China every day and back by dinner, right? He had to have been doing some covert ops–“
I cut him off. “Whoa. Whoa! Jason, slow down. Jeez, you’re going a mile a minute.”
“Sorry, Sarah,” his laugh was shaky, and I could hear the effort to calm himself. Long, slow breaths. More crunching of dry leaves. “This is just all coming to me these last few days, and I guess I’m getting a bit overwhelmed.”
“It’s okay. It’s kind of coming out of nowhere for me. Did she start talking about this, then?”
“Well, no. It’s just some puzzle pieces I’ve been putting together. I’ve been thinking a lot and it really makes sense, right? He was always leaving, every day, said he couldn’t bring a cell with him, when those were a thing at the end, right? Said no cell phones on the construction site. And he’d always come home dirty, and I just realized, it was actual dirt, right? He was coming home covered in dirt! Wouldn’t it be, like, cement or something? White stuff from those ceiling tiles? Why would it be dirt?”
“I don’t know, maybe he was doing stuff outside? Maybe he was getting into management stuff at the end. Uh, foreman, or whatever.”
“I guess, but it just doesn’t make any sense. And he’d never talk about his day, you know? He’d always just say it was boring and that no one would want to hear about it, and then he’d start drinking.”
I shrugged, though I knew the fox couldn’t see it. “Sure, I mean, it kind of is.”
“But that’s just the thing! You’d think he’d at least say he was worn out or that he hated his coworkers or whatever the fuck you say about coworkers in a construction job, but he’d never say anything, right? And I think mom wants me to stay quiet about this, but I think he was doing some covert stuff, or maybe he was hiding from them! And he was on some sort of list and maybe I am now, too!” He was shouting again.
“Hold on, Jace, where is this even coming from? I can’t keep up.”
“Sarah, listen. This is important stuff. Don’t just brush me off if you–”
“I’m not brushing you off, dude,” I growled into the phone. “I just can’t keep up, I can’t tell where this is coming from. We’ve never talked about your parents before.”
Silence.
“Sorry, that was kind of rough. I don’t mean to tell you to stop or anything. Just back up a little bit, okay? Did you talk to your mom recently?”
His voice grew muffled and obscured by a series of clicks, and I imagined his claws tapping shakily at the screen as he swiped through apps. “Yeah, she sent me…she sent me a text. Here. She says, Thinking of you and dad, you were always so alike and then there’s a series of a bunch of numbers and then she said sorry. What does that mean? That’s gotta mean something, right? Like, maybe she’s trying to drop a hint? Fuck what if…what if I’m some…some kind of sleeper agent or whatever?”
“I don’t–“
“Gotta go,” he said, and then hung up on me.
I blinked down at my phone and then the plaza around me. Some small part of me was smiling inwardly at how I must look: a weasel looking to the passersby, confusion in her eyes, as though they might somehow tell her what the fuck had just happened.
Jason’s words were just so sharp. I could feel the sentences still tangling up my legs, thorns tugging at fur and tearing at skin. They clung to me still, dragging me down. Trying to unravel what he was trying to express on the phone was no easier than walking through a blackberry thicket.
The conversation hadn’t lasted more than half an hour, and yet on thinking back, I couldn’t honestly say whether or not I had actually talked to my friend. Jason the goof. Jason the class clown who had nonetheless breezed through university a top-notch student. He was always so present. So here-and-now. Maybe not wholly grounded, but not…not who I had talked to earlier.