You Found Me

  You Found Me

  By Joel Cobbs

  For Callie

  The one who always made me worth fighting for.

  Preface to the 2nd Edition

  When it comes to literature, fiction must be able to stand on its own. The biggest challenge is the wording and style changes that happen frequently in the English language. As a writer, we can’t predict what will or will not be acceptable in the years that follow a publication.

  This was my first novel and still one of my favorites. Going back over and reading it, I can see how far I’ve come as a writer, which is a two-edged sword. On the one side, it’s good to see improvement in my trade. However, all that improvement makes me want to do more to “fix” or change the novel.

  For this edition, the original text is, for the most part, intact. The changes made concerned grammar, spelling, and general wording issues. Sometimes these can make it through the first time and have to be caught again.

  Whether this is your first time reading this book or maybe you’ve been through it a few times, I hope you are able to enjoy it and that something inside speaks to you. Thank you, Faithful Reader.

  Prologue

  I can honestly say my life began the day my mother died. No, she didn't die during childbirth or while having an emergency C Section. My mother died in a car accident on April 13th, 2008. On that day, at eighteen years old, my life began. I know it sounds cliché. I also know that on that day, who I was died with her. I became lost and was forced to find myself. It was the hardest journey I ever made in my life. And I've never regretted a moment of it.

  Sometimes, life throws you curves you didn't see coming. Whether you see them coming or not, it's not why they happened; it's how you handle them when they come along that defines who you really are.

  There are some things in life that are always there, but remain unknown. Life and death, the only two predictable things there are. But when you come in contact with both at once, feeling the full impact of what was, what is, and what may never come again, you start to feel something new. That...that is where you find yourself.

  Where you found me...

  PART I

  Chapter One

  My first class had been canceled. It was English, my best subject, but it was nice to have a break for once. I was carrying almost twenty hours this semester and could barely find time to sleep.

  I was an English major, a major labeled as the transition major until one picked a “real” major. I was good with words. I could take words and use them in a way I'm sure their creators never imagined was possible. I would look at a page, know exactly what I wanted to say, and two drafts later have it done. My system worked well for me. That is, until I took that English class at the University of Alabama in Huntsville.

  My teacher was evil. She's what my friend Leonard called a “fem-Nazi.” She would make life as painful as possible if you had any testosterone running through your veins. Don't get me wrong, she definitely knew her stuff, but the moment she walked into the class it was “woman” this and “women” that. This year, there was only one girl in our class. Now, I'm not one for rumors or strange superstitions, but this girl is the only one in the class with an A. The rest of us all have Cs or worse. I have a 79, which is extremely low for me. I planned on reporting her, claiming discrimination or something like that. I said that all the time and never actually did it.

  I didn't want to be in college in the first place. I wanted to write. I wanted to write books that changed the world. Books that would one day be considered classics, the greatest works of literature. Books that were required reading for schools and colleges all across the world.

  I hadn't always wanted to be a writer. In fact, it was something that had just recently grabbed my attention. Growing up, I'd hated reading. Books like To Kill a Mockingbird, Fahrenheit 451, or something like The Old Man and the Sea were read for school and school alone. Anyways, I'd read these books as just that, required reading. I couldn't really get into them.

  These were books that had seriously changed the way people viewed literature and the way books were written. They took people's perspectives on different things and showed them a new way of looking at it. Things like verb centered structure could be traced back to Hemingway and many of the other great writers of that time period.

  Then, sometime in junior high, I was introduced to books written by John Grisham. Not in the same class as Hemingway and Harper Lee, but definitely in a class of his own. The words he wrote moved quickly, not waiting on the world to catch up him. His plots were often fast paced and laced with energy. My introduction to him was through his first hit, The Firm, which happened almost a decade after it'd been published, maybe a little longer. I started buying all his books and realized I had an interest in something I'd never considered before. I started buying whatever books I could find. Stephen King, James Patterson, Nora Roberts. I was amazed at what I'd been missing. Then, I found another author I hadn't expected.

  John Updike was just another name to me at the time. I'd no idea who he was or what he wrote. I didn't even know he was an author. It didn't concern me because I didn't read. I was given a book entitled Rabbit, Run and found myself in love with the written word and the images each one defined. It was one of the greatest things I'd ever read, still to this day. I bought all of his books, then discovered another writer, then another, then another, until I found myself reading things because they interested me, not because I was required to. If it won a major award, I bought it. I loved reading stuff that was completely against what most people read, which made it much more appealing.

  Through this process, I discovered that these writers weren't writing fast enough for me, nor on the subjects I wanted to read about. I searched far and wide to find someone who touched on the difficult topics so many tried to avoid, such as death, pain, and personal sufferings. I found a few, such as Wally Lamb and Philip Roth, but they barely glanced at what I wanted to hit with full force. Thus, I began writing. Short stories at first, then I started a book.

  I was in high school at the time and worked on it halfheartedly. Halo had come out and a lot of my time was spent with my friends learning multiplayer tactics and other aspects of video gaming. Sports also became an obsession of mine, as did the Auburn Tigers. Despite these and many other setbacks, the book began finding its way and, unfortunately, taking much longer than I'd expected. I graduated high school and made the life changing decision. I was going to be a writer.

  My parents shared my ambition in their own way. They wanted me to go all the way with school. Bachelors, Masters, Doctorate, then find a nice job to keep money rolling in. They didn't care what I majored in, they just wanted me to go through with it until the end. “Finish what you start,” Mom would constantly say as I got older and older.

  College was a waste of time. It felt so stupid to be sitting in class, wasting my life away. Most of the time I sat in class, barely listening, and writing stories while the teacher lectured onward. I'd submitted lots of short stories all of which were turned down. My stories were labeled “too progressive” whatever that meant. It bothered me, but I tried to move passed it. I was bitter and discouraged because of it. I felt like everyone in the world was being published except me. Over the years I've learned I was not the only who felt like that. Because of this, I was still in college majoring in English.

  The sign on the door was in short, simple writing, the same style the teacher asked of us.

  Dr. Matthew's 11:45am is canceled. Class will resume as usual next day of class.

  While she was an excellent teacher, this was just too much. It made sense that if she canceled classes, she wouldn't send out an email telling us like the rest of the faculty. She would simply write a note on the door so we'd all ge
t there and be like “oh crap!” I lived a good ways away and could've been home right now. I rolled my eyes and walked back to my truck.

  I usually suffered through class and ran to lunch afterwards. Her class was sufferable. Today, with class being canceled and all, I could actually go sit down and eat in peace.

  My friends still had class and couldn't do anything with me. I was hungry, but didn't wanna go anywhere by myself. It was just afternoon at this point. I called everyone I knew, hoping someone would answer their phone. After ten or eleven tries, someone finally answered. Apparently they had to work. The next person was in class. I felt desperate.

  I remembered Mom was supposed to have an appointment. She worked with the parents of kids with disabilities. She usually met the parents for lunch or coffee to go over the different things involving their children's education, behavior plans, and other matters they needed to discuss. I don't really remember what else she talked about, but I'm sure it was important.

  I didn't want to call her. We didn't, exactly, get along. It was hard for us to complete a conversation regardless of the topic and it end as peacefully as it started. We tried, don't get me wrong. We tried all the time. It just never seemed to work no matter how hard we worked at it. We finally gave up and just did what we did. It was sad, really, that we couldn't work things out. Looking back, I'd like to say things would've turned out much better if we'd gotten along. I'd like to say that my life would've gone in a direction I could be proud of. I'd like to say she was there to watch me march onwards through life. Sadly, I can't say any of those things. But I know, without a shadow of doubt, what happened happened for a reason and changed my life.

  I tried her cellphone, half expecting to get the voicemail. It rang twice and her voice came on the other end (and startled me to be honest).

  “Hello?”

  “Oh, uh. Hey Mom. It's me.”

  “Rob! I wasn't expecting you to call. Wait, what's wrong?” She always expected something to be wrong when I called. I didn't ignore my parents, I just tried to live my life independently. There was nothing wrong with that, right? I didn't care either way. It's how I wanted to live and I was fine with that. Besides, we rarely talked anyway.

  “Nothing's wrong. Why do you always assume something is wrong?”

  “Cause you only call when something is wrong. Do we have to have this discussion again?” No, we don't. And I'd prefer not to.

  “Anyways, class was canceled. I'm hungry and was wondering if you wanted to meet for lunch.”

  “The two of us?” “Yes.”

  “In public?” I hesitated.

  “Yes?” It came out a question more than an answer.

  “Okay. My appointment fell through so I could use some lunch. Where do you wanna meet?”

  “How about Big Spring Park? We can get whatever we want and meet there.” She agreed and we set a time. I told her I loved her and hung up the phone. I always did that when I hung up the phone. Very little changed in my life.

  I wasn't sure what I wanted to eat. There were a lot of options, but none that seemed really good at the moment. I wanted a sandwich, but was unsure of what kind. I was a very indecisive person. Not the wishy washy kind that picks something, then picks something else, and again picks something else. I have trouble picking something, period. When I finally pick it, I stick with it. Picking something was my problem.

  I scrolled through my contact list, looking for somewhere to eat. I lived on my phone. If I had any sort of question, I used my phone. It wasn't a smart phone, just one that I used for every little thing. I had several restaurants in my phone for when I worked and couldn't go somewhere to eat. They all know me by first name, which was cool in its own way. They would walk in the door, walk to the cafe I worked at, and delivered it right to me. I'd pay them and we'd go our separate ways. I worked in the restaurant business for a few years and realized how important tips were, whether it be a delivery man or a server. Tips were important to the people. Most servers make $2.15 an hour and have to make up the difference in tips. Very annoying I'm sure.

  Jason's Deli seemed like a good idea. I hadn't had it in forever. That wasn't unusual for me because I'll get hooked on the same place and end up ordering/eating there all the time. Never been a big health nut, but also not a big fast-food person. Delis are a nice compromise.

  I cranked my truck and turned my iPod on. The radio wasn't one of my favorite things in life. I preferred to pick my own music, hitting the random button and driving. I like songs I can sing along with. I had a few that were way too high for me (Livin' on a Prayer, Bon Jovi) but I still tried. Nobody was around to listen anyway.

  Like I said, I took classes at UAH. We'd just had a new school president elected, which was ironic because that was what the nation was going through at the moment. It was the last term of President Bush, yet another unfortunate target of a biased media, and all sorts of people were in the running. It was an ugly and dirty thing. One woman, one black man, and a whole bunch of white guys. It became racist, sexist, and any other term some moron could think of. Pathetic is what came to my mind.

  Jason's Deli is roughly two miles from UAH. I got on University Drive and started heading that way. Huntsville is one of the strangest cities. Traffic isn't that bad, but it isn't the easiest to navigate. Alabama is known for its aggressive drivers. When Alabamians drive in other states, they often come back with tickets. The rules that are supposed to apply often don't.

  I was in the lane, waiting my turn to get into the parking lot. Jason's Deli recently opened and was a huge novelty. It was kind of annoying with all the people there, but nice to have it nearby. Interesting is probably a better word. I finally got my turn and quickly zoomed into the parking lot. Cars are not known for being nice. They sped, ran stop signs and red lights, and honked like crazy. If you drove slow, you were a moron. If you drove fast, you were an idiot. Strange world we live in.

  The line for Jason's was long. Going all the way out the door and pass the patio at the end of the building. I looked at my watch. I still had about half an hour to get to the park, but knew it would take that long just to make my sandwich. I stood outside and called the restaurant. I told them what I wanted and asked how long it would take to make it. “It'll be about five or ten minutes,” the employee said. I figured I could wait that long, so I ordered and waited outside. It seems like a cheap thing to do, but I'm sure you can tell, I didn't care. When I'm hungry, I want my food.

  I couldn't believe Mom and I were going to eat together. In public. Where people could see us. Not getting along very well wasn't because of my school or her job. It was because we were so much alike it drove us crazy. We would think the same things, make the same decisions, and had lots more in common. We argued a lot too.

  I looked at my watch. Roughly three minutes had passed. I decided to wait just a few more minutes before going in. I mapped out how to get to Big Spring Park in my head. It wasn't hard, and wouldn't take me that long. Barely a block from the courthouse and right off the Parkway. If you knew where to park, you could also avoid the parking meters.

  I walked in to Jason's and paid for my sandwich, which took a small chunk of my money. When you work in retail, you barely get paid. There wasn't even a depression going on yet and you still got paid squat. I got back to my truck and opened the door. My truck was twenty years old. Most things in it had stopped working, had been fixed, or just plain changed. It came with an AM radio, which I replaced with a CD player and iPod adapter. The air conditioning had quit, so I had to rewire it directly into the truck. A small button next to the gear shift had to be pressed before it would work, a trick my dad had used on one of his cars.

  The worst part, though, was the doors. They didn't lock. Well, they did but they didn't. If you locked them, you would be there a long time trying to get it opened. Something about the bar connecting the keyhole and the lock tab wasn't working right. It was annoying, but I decided to not lock it at all and never leave anything of value in there.
Never.

  The food smelled so good. My favorite sandwich there is the “New York Yankee.” It's amazing, piled high with pastrami, corned beef and Swiss. I always got it with mayo. It was roughly three inches tall and four inches wide, but I could finish it.

  I fought my way through lunchtime traffic and carefully made my way to the park. I turned into a small clinic and parked across the street. The sandwich smelled good. Really good. I got out and found a bench. I'd gotten a water to wash the sandwich down. I didn't see Mom anywhere. This wasn't unusual. I was on time, after all. My folks were late for almost everything.

  I sat down and started eating. The sky was blue. It had rained for several weeks, which not only was annoying but dangerous as well. Too much rain can cause a lot of trouble. Thankfully, the sun was shining today, but a soft breeze made the temperature seem not so hot.

  Big Spring Park had once been the pride of Huntsville, a beautiful place where friends could meet, mingle, and all sorts of other things. It would always be green, even in the winter. Ducks filled the small pond, feeding off leftover lunches. Then, it was forgotten. Homeless people could be found at all hours of day and night begging for any change you had, whether big or small. Some of them were good people. I knew this because a lot of them came to work for the free samples we give at work. They were people with incurable diseases and no health insurance. They were people who had simply been dealt a bad hand in life and were on their last string. They were real. My mother drove up and parked next to my truck.

  My mother was beautiful. She has long black hair and carried herself with a sense of pride. She rarely wore more make up than mascara and maybe some eyeliner. She was shorter than I was by about five or six inches. I'm roughly 6'1” or 6'2”, the tallest in our family in several generations. My Dad is 5'10” and my grandfather is shorter than that. We never knew where my height came from. It was another of the great mysteries in our family.