This is the story of a shirt. This shirt was worn by a man. This story is about that man.

They found each other early in life as they grew strong on the same cotton farm. The man, then a boy, was nurtured by his parents, and the shirt, then raw cotton, was nurtured by the boy. As soon as both were mature enough, they left. The young man, on little more than pure youthful optimism and a complete naivety of the dangers of life, made his way into the vast potential of the outside world. The shirt was picked, sold, spun, dyed, and made cloth. Deft hands then sewed the cloth into the shirt, the same shirt that the young man saw in the window and purchased the first day of his travels.

Together, the two explored the world and made it a point to never return to anyplace they had been before. Along the way, they picked up a pair of leather boots, clean and wanting of adventure, and a belt, hardened and smooth asking to be broken in. Together, the group found all the joy and happiness the world provides for the unencumbered. Years were spent on the road working odd jobs, rambling from place to place, and having no responsibilities. In towns, they stayed up all night drinking and flirting with barmaids. For days, sometimes week, the shirt, boots, and belt would be out all night with the man, taking advantage of the young, resilient body. But, the longer the group stayed, the more uncomfortable the comfortable surroundings they became. And soon, when the belt was scarred, the shirt was worn, and the boots begged for miles, the group would set off again. In between these adventures, the man took the opportunity to wash and dry out, clean his companions and sleep off mistakes. This was the way of his world, of their world. Total and complete freedom. But the joy of freedom is fleeting, and the young man, unknowingly, began to look for stability.

When he found it, the boots were first to be cast off. It happened one day as the young man, the shirt, the boots, and belt crested a hill. Below them was a beautiful valley town. The shirt felt a faster twitch in the man’s heartbeat, the belt felt the breath fill and hold, and the boots could sense the pace quicken. In this way, though the young man himself may not have felt the attraction to this place, his travelling partners were certain that this place was special. As the group approached town, the twitch turned to fluttering, the breath grew deep and calm, and the boots slowed. Right then, at the entrance to this village, the young man knew this was what he had been searching for. In the span of a few days, the group found a small home to rent, a job working in the fields, and a community they could belong to. This community, however, had societal standards and the boots, having been re-soled and repaired too many times to be remembered, looked too road worn to be publicly acceptable. Soon after establishing himself, the young man purchased a pair more fitting of a gentleman and the old pair, the boots of a wanderer, were retired to a chest at the foot of the man’s bed.

The young man again worked the cotton fields. He developed a reputation as a hard-working, independent man who had potential, albeit a little irresponsible. He was embraced by the community and he, in turn, was a grateful citizen. One evening, after a long day working the cotton fields, the man, the shirt, and the belt sat at a local inn waiting for a good meal and a better drink. As the man looked up to thank the young woman bringing his plate, he caught a glimpse, a mere flash of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. The shirt felt his heart jump, twitch and flutter and the belt stretched and relaxed quickly as the young man tried to catch his breathe. He asked the barmaid “Who is in the kitchen this evening?” “That would be our new cook, Nora” she replied. The not so young man ate quickly, drank too quickly, and loitered around the Inn hoping for one more look at Nora. That opportunity never presented itself and he was swept out the door with that evening dust. When he got to his bed, he undressed and looked at his belt. Each cut and scar on the leather represented a memory, if only he could remember them all. Though he was drunk, he recognized that this was a different kind of fog, like everything was viewed through broken glass. It wasn’t faulty memories, he was changing. He took the belt, and with a sigh, he placed it on top of the boots in the chest at the foot of his bed.

For a full week, the not so young man had dinner at the Inn. He finished every meal drinking until either he ran out of money or the barmaid ran out of patience. On Friday, he once again entered the Inn and there sat Nora alone at a table with two drinks. Crestfallen at the idea she was waiting for someone, he sat in his usual seat and ordered. The barmaid, quite annoyed at both seeing the man yet again and seeing just how ignorant he was, leaned over and whispered “She’s here for you” as she motioned toward Nora. “She said she had to meet the man who could eat three dinners a night.”

That night was the beginning of a courtship and it wasn’t long before the man asked Nora a question. And, with Nora's answer, the young couple became the young betrothed. The man became a land owner and hired men to work the fields. He held public appointments of high regard and was generally looked upon as a steadfast and competent man. Nora was an enormous success in her own right. She became renowned throughout the region for her cooking skills, took over the Inn, and ran the town bakery. Though the shirt at almost all events in the couple’s first few years, as the two gained esteem, the occasions where the shirt was acceptable attire became fewer and fewer. And so, the shirt spent more time waiting than ever before. And the longer the time between events, the farther down the bureau it traveled. Once living in the top drawer, ready to be worn at a moment’s notice, it finally found a home under forgotten clothes in the bottom of the bureau. The shirt grew threadbare and faded. But it always was there, always waiting

The evening before the wedding, the man was feeling the pull of irresponsibility that happiness often brings. This disregard of consequences reminded him of a time long past. A past where this same freedom was standard. He felt his spirit lift even more as he went to the bureau, to the bottom drawer of that bureau, and to the shirt.

The man swung, swayed, and skipped through the town on his way to the tavern. As he felt the rush of expectation for both his marriage and the evening ahead. He remembered the life of a young man. He remembered the nights in the bars, the wonderful new cultures he found. He remembered the excitement of a touch. This drove him harder and he increased his pace. He smiled and waved at the fellow townsfolk, letting everyone see his joy. But his greetings garnered only odd looks of embarrassment and disapproval. He did not care. He was happy and invincible today.

The walk to tavern, however, was long and soon, those look’s and whispers began to chip away at his confidence. His shoulders fell, his gait shortened, and he lowered his eyes as he wondered “What are they carrying on about?” Stopping in front of a shop window, he saw his reflection. And then, all at once, he saw himself. In the glass was a wizened man, a face that had seen life at its best and worst. A man respected and in high standing within society. A man, not a young man, a man that had earned a life. And then, he looked at the shirt. It was ill fitting, stretched at the belly, too large at the shoulders, and the collar two sizes too small. And the dye, though faded, was not the color a distinguished man wore. The people weren’t passing judgment on the man, they were embarrassed by the dissonance.

He returned home, wondering where time goes when one doesn’t pay attention. He, for the first time in a long time, opened the chest. Reaching in, he removed the belt and the boots and reverently placed them on the bed. It struck him how grand he remembered these items, but how, now, with the benefit of perspective, they looked tattered. He recalled how the boots would beg him to keep going, keep walking, keep exploring. But he remembered for every beautiful mile they all walked together, there were always days, sometimes weeks of sleet and rain. He remembered his sore legs, the nights alone by fire, and realized that though those boots that brought him some of his fondest memories were also responsible for loneliness and years of difficulty. He held the belt and remembered as much as he could about all the conquests each notch represented. Then he remembered the lies he had to sell, the many number of times he slept alone, the raucous nights at the bars punctuated by the slow, painful morning. He understood that most of these notches were forgettable, a minor moment of lust, and could not compare to the love he felt now. These two no longer represented youth, they were worn pieces of leather that a young man happened to own. “But the shirt…” he thought “surely the shirt can be salvaged.”

He removed the shirt and gently folded it, laying it next to the other travelers. Gone were the bright colors and style that first attracted him to the shirt. Gone, too, were the strong back and thick arms of the youth that used to fill it. Today, both the man and the shirt were tired, smelled of smoke and wine, and neither were nearly as bold as he remembered. Though both he and the shirt were full of stories, the man realized these stories also came at a cost. Again, he saw the joy and happiness of that young man overshadowed by the solitude that filled the average day. He realized that he was holding on to the good memories and jettisoning the bad and that the reality of his travels was much different than the few wonderful moments he could recall. He placed the boots and belt back into the chest, back to the place they had been relegated to for all these years. He then set the shirt, and what was left of his youth and youngmanhood, on top. With a deep breathe of disappointment aimed at the items that held him back from being truly happy, he shut, locked and slid the chest under the bed for the last time and went about finding something more appropriate to wear.

As goosebumps cover my arms, I sit, elbows resting on the thick shellac covering a damaged bar and press my forehead into interlocked fingers. The first few horn notes from a song I have never heard reminds of the “The Army Song” and I close my eyes as the cold sensation spreads. As each hair stiffens and stands taller, my back naturally does the same. I sit up straighter, stop drinking, and listen with reverence to each word and every beat of the song only playing in my head. That song finishes as the jukebox continues and I relax. I look to the patrons sitting in the adjacent stools and notice the same reaction. The one to the left, a 22-year-old, is young and anxious. His eyes are bright and clear, taking in the world and learning all he can from everything. His drink is a cheap bottled beer, all he can afford a low-ranking infantryman’s salary. He peels the label back, look at the attractive waitress longingly, and rubs the still raised hair on his forearm. As he places the empty bottle on the bar, another patron sends him another with a “Thank you for your service.” He nods in appreciation. He is stick thin and athletic with an air of misguided confidence and self-assurance. The alcohol flushes his clean-shaven face. The shorn sides of his head, the small patch of hair slightly longer on top, and the clothes, obviously from the base store, give away his chosen career. He is at this bar alone and looking for companionship. He eagerly looks to the door at odd intervals with contained disappointment. This happens now, and, as he inevitably turns back to his beer, I see the rare face of innocence. He is here because he quietly wishes the waitress would notice him, but she has never and will never remember him, so he looks for other patrons to make rash and poor decisions with. He does not know, nor does he care, about the next three years, let alone the next thirty. He is serving his country during a war he does not agree with because that is what he was taught to do. He is repaying his debt to a country that held him and raised him. He knows he will go to war, he knows of the dangers and the cost, but he is willing, moreover eager, to complete the task he signed up for. He is ignorant and stubborn, strong and fast, and the epitome of youth. He is on his way to Iraq and all he can think of is the pleasure derived from a beautiful woman’s touch.

I am in the middle. I am a hairy, unkempt contemptuous oaf of a man. My eyes are slits, leery of all, and mostly hidden by my lowered brow. I rarely look up from a Black and Tan, my drink of choice when I’m drinking away my veteran’s pension. My world is one of mistrust: mistrust of people and the government I so fully supported. My hand aches as does my head. A nonverbal exchange is made as I finish my beer and the waitress delivers another. “Thank you for your service” I say with the irony lost on her. She is the same beautiful creature the 22-year-old longs for, but I am older, jaded, and cognizant of the patron server relationship. While he wants to make an impression on her, I can only look downward knowing full well she remembers me. She remembers me from last night, the night before that, and from all the nights and days I have settled into this barstool. The sharp angular features of my youth have softened, both in the face and the midsection. In retaliation for years of forced conformity, both the hair on top of my head and on my face is longer than socially acceptable. I think I don’t shave because I am lazy, but as the night goes on and my heavy heart and lighter head begin to speak more honestly, I know I desire to hide behind this all. I do maintain some composure. My hat may be dirty, but my clothes are clean. No one mistakes me for a derelict. I just appear as one of those people who has harder time than most people when handling life and the world. My arms are thick and hard and my back strong, but my hand, the left one, is weakened by blasts and surgeries and the dull ache in my head often flares up, causing impatient outbursts that leads me to self-prescribed alcohol. I’m not sure why I fought anymore, I just know they operated on me after I nearly died for them, and when I was unable to do my job, they gave a thousand dollars a month and no transferable work skills. I work for minimum wage under the supervision of nineteen-year-olds. They grace me with their condescension because my memory, due to the blasts, is not as sharp as theirs. They do not know I’m a veteran, a decorated war hero, a Purple Heart recipient. All they know is that I am almost 30 and I work for them, so I must be worthless. And so, they treat me that way. All day, every day, and afterward, I come into this bar, I sit down, and I drink enough to forget those things that even my bruised brain refuses to let go of. No one knows who I am or what I did, and most wouldn’t believe me if I told them because I don’t look like any other soldier they have ever seen.

To my right, the stool is taken up by a 40-year-old leaning over a glass of water. After many years of irresponsibility, he has nearly stopped drinking but certainly stopped drinking alone. He looks at me with wizened eyes that are just as bright as the 22-year-old’s, and a stout, knowing expression. His attitude is one of hope and happiness. His clothes are pristinely pressed, and his hair is sharp and short. His well-groomed stubble is purposeful as he radiates confidence. This confidence, however, is different than that of the 22-years-old’s. This confidence is one of a man that has seen life, seen death, and decided to do his best to beat both. He is a proud veteran and is willing to talk to anyone about his service. His head aches and occasionally so does his hand, but he can control the pain because he realizes the alcohol is not a cure, only a crutch. He is still strong, but tight and sharp minded, making him more than the pile of useless muscles I am. The waitress is polite and kind as they speak with no pretenses. He has a home and wife, he only comes here to humor me and show me what I have given up. No one speaks, but the younger man looks at the older man with respect, the man to the kid with envy. I look at the both of them with the contempt and they return the scowl. We cannot stand each other. I disappoint the them both and they show me my biggest failures and regrets. I am a battered, beaten, and cynical version of the first, and a futile waste to the latter. I sit here, every night, giving half my paycheck to the jukebox and the other half to the waitress. Someone, the young man I think, plays “I’m Proud to be an American” and I weep. The blasts ruined my emotional responses, so I cannot control it even if I chose to. I just choke up and heavy, slow tears fall from my eyes. My two other-selves cry too, but unlike me, they know why. “Tomorrow,” I say to the other two, “tomorrow, I will do better, I’ll make you proud, both of you, but tonight, I will have one more.” One more song, one more drink, and probably one more night in this bar. As the last of the beer hits the back of my throat and the waitress hands me another, I promise me, all three of me, that things will change.

I have gotten pretty good at lying to myselves.

Part I: Protagonist

There once lived a man who was courageous, known for his fortitude, had superior intellect, unmatched strength, and had an insatiable thirst for battle. He was reverent, clean, brave, thrifty, cheerful, obedient, kind, courteous, friendly, helpful, loyal, and trustworthy. All in the land saw him as not only a good man, but the best man that had ever been. He had no flaws, no vices, and genuinely put others needs before his own. He was up for any quest and any task, regardless of personal cost, if it helped anyone else in their life. He was called Oak at birth and The Great Oak in adulthood.

The Great Oak traveled the world looking for the places where the most helpless were facing the worst adversity. He slayed dragons, killed pillaging orcs, and flayed dangerous beasts. He dispatched with giants, eradicated hordes of insects, and was adept in killing dragons. As a traveling hero, Oak received gift and gold, but he only kept what was needed to get him to the next adventure and repair the equipment that was damaged during the quest. As such, when he returned most of the gold offered as reward back to the villager, he was often rewarded with payments of food, blessings, or something, tangible or intangible, that the villagers prized. These were as simple as totems that provided luck, amulets that warmed the body on cold nights, or, as is in this case, a reading from the town oracle.

The Great Oak had heard of a village on the far reaches of the world that was under duress. This small fishing village owed all it’s had to the rough, rocky waters on which it was located. Endless schools of fish took to these waters and the villagers were good fishermen. Lately, however, the nets had been coming up empty or torn in two. Walking for weeks across desserts, ranges, and dense forests, The Great Oak finally entered town in the same incognito fashion he always did. One would think a man of his stature would be noticed, but The Great Oak found it useful to get an understanding of the challenges he may face before announcing himself, and the only way to do this was through anonymity. As he entered the town pub, he took a seat at the back of the room and watched the villagers. He saw worried but honest people that could barely make enough coin when fishing was good. Now, with this unknown invader, they were struggling. Convinced of their earnestness, he walked to the bartender and asked, quite simply “I understand you are in need of a hero?” “Yes sir, we are awaiting a man of great prominence,” he replied. “Can you not see that this is the man we asked for,” said a quiet voice from the other end of the bar. The Great Oak looked toward the delicate sound and saw a beautiful young woman staring directly at him. But there was something odd about these eyes looking him over. They were a radiant emerald green. But, most strikingly, there were no whites in these eyes, no pupils, no iris, just bold green orbs set in a distractingly attractive face. “You can see? You can see me?” asked The Great Oak staring into the deep green. “Yes, I see. I see more than you could know. I see in your time, but at the same time I see the future, I see the past. I saw you coming and I see you leaving as clearly as I see you now.” This intrigued The Great Oak as he had come across many oracles in his travels, but none this young, none with eyes like this, and none so captivating. “I will tell the village leader you are here,” said the oracle. “But wait,” stammered The Great Oak. “Do not worry, Oak, we will meet again” she said as she gracefully drifted toward the door. The bartender, hearing The Great Oak’s name, suddenly snapped alert. “Are you really The Great Oak?” the bartender asked. But The Great Oak, too distracted to answer, was still staring at the door.

The village leader informed The Great Oak that at dusk, when fishing was at its best, they could not pull in an undamaged net. And that, if the net was still salvageable when pulled in, the fish were all torn apart. The Great Oak was familiar with these types of nocturnal monsters had several times over solved similar issues with other coastal towns. He waited until daybreak and followed the things back to their nest and set fire to it. As the monsters ran out of the entrance, he cut them down swiftly and easily without so much as receiving a scratch. Returning to town, he was met with awe and elation.

The village had taken up a collect to pay for the hero, but, as customary for The Great Oak, he returned nearly all of it. “If you will not take our gold, will you at least allow our town oracle give you a reading.” The Great Oak smiled at the thought of seeing her again and agreed readily. The oracle was called and the two entered the boarding house. At the table, the oracle looked deep into The Great Oak’s eyes, which, he thought should be unsettling but was strangely calming, and quietly said “Good to see you again.” “Same to you,” said The Great Oak, still not sure whether she could really see him. She grabbed him by his callous, scar covered hands and the world stopped. He sat, facing her, and found it impossible to listen. She explained about exploits and bigger and bigger quests until finally the “King” brought The Big Oak back to earth. “King?! I will be king?” he asked earnestly. “Yes, many already see you as not only a good man, the best man ever to be. You are destined for royalty. But, first, you must kill the man who will sit on the throne.” “I do not kill men,” The Great Oak stated tersely. “But you will, you will kill him. You cannot avoid this path. He will make it easy, for just as you are destined to take the title of king, it is his destiny to have the title, and his life, taken from him.” She then leaned toward Oak, whispered something barely audible, something that The Great Oak would not remember for years. With that, the boarding house slowly began to come back to life. Sounds and movements from the patrons started low and slow and built to the regular raucousness one usually sees at a bar. With the world righting itself, the oracle stood, nodded, and left. The Great Oak felt as if he should chase her down, demand more answers, but was unable to move, overwhelmed by what he had just been told.

Part II- Antagonist

There once was a man from a coastal fishing village. This man was strong and ambitious. He was kind and thoughtful. He was a graceful, strong swimmer and as a young man, was considered the best the village had ever produced. He was clever and such a bright young man; the townsfolk would bring disputes to him to mediate. During these arbitrations, he almost always found a compromise that satisfied each party. If an agreement could not be found, he would give something of his own to make each party whole. This man, this great man, was called Judah as birth and The Good Jude as an adult.

The certain coastal village where The Good Jude grew into adulthood had an oracle which all considered to be truthful and authentic. It was said when she stared at you with the deep green eyes, she could see more than anyone could know. She could see in the time everyone else without her gift could perceive, but simultaneously, she could see the future and the past. And as she read a future, the one receiving the reading would be captivated and the world would stop. The Good Jude went to see her because he believed, as did everyone else in the village, that he was destined for great things.

“Good morning, The Good Jude,” the Oracle said as he entered her hut. “Good morning, oracle,” The Good Jude responded, unable to look at her directly for he already knew of her beauty. “I am here…” he said, but the oracle nodded and motioned for him to sit down. “I know why you are here, both here in my hut and here in the world at large,” she said. “Of course,” he responded staring deep into her green eyes. As the sounds of the ocean lapping onto the shore slowed and stopped and the normal noise of the village gradually dulled, the oracle began to tell the story of the life and death of The Good Jude.

“King?! I will be king?” The Good Jude asked earnestly. “Yes, many already see you as not only a good man, the best man ever to be. You are destined for royalty.” “How is this possible?” The Good Jude asked more questioning the knowledge itself. The oracle, ever literal, responded with “You will become a valued member of the King’s court and when he is killed in battle, the rest of the court will select you as the successor for the King will have no heirs.” The Good Jude closed his eyes an imagined this, but as he did, the oracle continued. “You will be reviled, no matter what you do. Current generations will see you as the worst King the land has ever had. Your legacy will not be recognized until another, the one who takes your throne, shows the world how much better it was under your reign. You cannot avoid this path. Just as you are destined to take the title of king, it is his destiny to have the title, and take your life.” The Good Jude listened and though he never knew the oracle to be wrong, he knew that he would not abuse the power of a king if given the opportunity. As world came back to life, the oracle simple said “Good luck to you, Good Jude.”

Part III: Paths

The Good Jude left the village and traveled inland toward the capital of the kingdom. Along the way, he met weary travelers, vagrants, and the infirmed. He stopped and assisted each of the unfortunate souls he encountered giving all he had, both physically and financially. He stopped by each village and performed odd jobs and small tasks only asking for enough to make it to the next town. In this way, he made his way slowly toward the capital. But also in this way, the name of The Good Jude was able to reach the capital much sooner than the man himself. He entered the capital and was met by the King’s Guards who led him to the throne room. The King, one Kemp the Brute, looked upon the road worn young man and asked, “Why do you help my people without asking for anything in return?” The Good Jude replied, “I believe it is the responsibility of those who have the capability to help to do so.” And with that simple statement, The Good Jude became an advisor to the king.

Kemp the Brute’s most evident attribute was his viciousness. He ruled as a tyrant and kept himself insulated from his people and their problems. He would conquer lands and leave them to be retaken, just to go back and conquer them again. He was bloodthirsty and cruel. As such, he was not one the public would take arbitrations to, for his compromise always left the parties poorer and the king himself better off. The Good Jude saw this and began whispering simple answers to the king whenever the public had issues. Together, they gained more trust. Kemp the Brute appeared to the public to be more compassionate, however, this was all The Good Jude. More and more negotiations came in front of the King, and, realizing that these things bored him, and The Good Jude was skilled in finding conciliation, he appointed The Good Jude as the domestic advisor, the most prominent position in the high court. This appointment was met with respect from the other advisors, for they knew he was the best suited for the position, and respect from the public, as they had come to see The Good Jude as a trusted leader. As he gained this reverence and veneration, the words the oracle spoke to him all those years ago still rang in his ears.

The Great Oak left the coastal village the day after the entrancing oracle told him he was going to be king. and traveled inland toward the capital of the kingdom. Along the way, he met weary travelers, vagrants, and the infirmed. He stopped and assisted each of the unfortunate souls he encountered giving all he had, both physically and financially. He stopped by each village and performed odd jobs and small tasks only asking for enough to make it to the next town. In this way, he made his way slowly toward the capital. All the way, he saw the fields fallow, carcasses of cattle, entire villages burnt to the ground and the house that were still standing were falling in upon themselves. He saw poverty, the terrible conditions of the roads, and cemeteries with hundreds of makeshift crosses. This land was in dire need for a hero, a hero like himself. As he entered the capital, the guards had been expecting him and the escorted him to an inn near the central palace. As he saw the reverence and veneration of the citizen and guards, the words the oracle spoke to him all those weeks ago rang in his ears.

Part IV: Decisions

As the oracle predicted, Kemp the Brute started a war. Why he started a war, The Good Jude did not know, he only knew that in the king’s absence, he was to lead. The Good Jude saw the toll such a savage and destructive war took on his land. So, when word came the Kemp the Brute was cut down in battle, The Good Jude took the throne confidently. He knew oracle had told him of these events and she had yet to be wrong, but he, knowing that he was destined to be vilified, felt he could change it. Simply be knowing the future, he thought, he could do his best to change course.

His first act as King Jude the Good was to end the war. He called for a meeting of delegates from the two warring lands. Using his well sharpened skill of negotiation and after struggling for many days to find a compromise, he finally was able to sign an agreement that ended the fighting. He lauded as a hero, but, as he called his army back from the lines, the oppositions army advanced, burning and pillaging villages. As Kemp the Brute understood, the enemy and their delegation were not trustworthy and the treaty was immediately broken. They were able to advance several miles and scorch several towns before word of the betrayal reached the court. King Jude the Good took up arms, but during the delegation meeting, the other army was reinforcing their lines. Seeing his army outnumbered, King Jude the Good called to public and asked them to protect the land along side the army. Together, the citizenry and the military pushed back and successfully defended the land. But the cost was great and the citizens casualties where immense. The land was safe, but they had lost too many young men and women and their parents blamed King Jude.

It took years to rebuild the damaged land and towns. Contractor and home builders were working all day every day to help the recovery, but the process was slow. During this time, King Jude began planning on how to regain trust and help as many people as possible. Understanding it was the crown’s fault these people lost their homes, King Jude decreed that he would pay for any contractor to rebuild the lost houses. He set up royal banks in all the damaged villages and told the contractors that when the completed construction, they were to go to the bank and withdraw their cost. Additionally, King Jude decreed that all farmers we due compensation as many of them lost crop or cattle during the war and they all were directly assisted the war effort by feeding the army. These decisions were praised as coin made its way to the public. But King Jude soon found the Law of Unintended Consequences is always at work.

The Great Oak sat at the Inn surrounded by the sallow faces of revolutionaries and palace guards. The plan they had described to him in over the past hour was daunting. The land, as The Great Oak had already witnessed, was in grim shape. The party that brought him to the Inn has determined that the current king was the reason for all the suffering. And, that if they were ever to regain any hope for the future, they would need a new ruler. This ruler would need to be courageous with a strong fortitude. He had to be intelligent with unmatched strength. He needed to be reverent, clean, brave, thrifty, cheerful, obedient, kind, courteous, friendly, helpful, loyal, and trustworthy. He needed to not only be a good man, but the best man that had ever been. The Great Oak was this man, the concluded, and they had asked him to kill their leader and take his throne. The Great Oak already knew this was their request, the oracle had never been wrong, but he did not kill men. The group knew this too and invited The Great Oak to join them on a walk throughout the capital.

The Revolutionaries took The Great Oak to the infirmary to see the disease, they took him over the crater filled roads and through derelict structures threatening to fall. He saw the poverty, the starvation, the lack of the necessities for a good and life, He soon realized that the thousands of monsters he had dispersed with over his career as a traveling hero had not combined to do as much damage to human kind as this one man had. This fact weighed heavily on his mind as the group came upon the Cemetery. This vast field was covered with tiny wooden crosses. The Great Oak started and quickly stopped counting the crosses. He realized the number was insignificant, but what was significant was that he saw more crosses, more graves, than he saw citizens, living beings, in the city. He turned to the revolutionaries and said “It is a sad place where the dead outnumber the living. I will help. I will be your new king.”

Part V: Conflict

King Jude saw great prosperity in the few months after his decisions to assist the carpenters and the farmers. Just as it seemed that King Jude may become Good again, the miners, the metalsmiths, and the stablemen asked for counsel. They felt they were just as important as the war cause as the farmers and they had also lost just as much. Understanding their position, King Jude agreed to support these craftsmen, but as soon as the declaration was made, other groups, weavers, brewers, and others came forward demanding their support as well. These, he was unable to help as Crown’s coffers were depleted. Between giving to the farmers and some of the other industries, it also happened that a record number of contractors were building homes faster than anyone anticipated.

King Jude sent out a delegation to find out how construction could continue to move at this pace. He soon founds out that; one: people were purposely damaging undamaged homes so as to get a free one; two: many of the contractors the crown paid were not qualified to do the work they provided; and three: even those who were qualified were sacrificing quality for speed so as to get another paycheck as soon as possible. They had manipulated the system and as a result, the Crown was nearly penniless, the homes were nearly worthless, and the only ones who prospered were the liars who had no issue taking as much coin as possible and relocating, never sending the coin back into local circulation.

King Jude the Good, with all his wisdom and negotiating, could have fixed these problems. But King Jude the Good had lost the Good and with it, his confidence. He second guessed his judgment and as he did, so did the public. The last remaining group to support him, the farmers, were met with the driest summer many had ever known. Crops dried out, animal starved and died of thirst or disease while bugs and birds ate the only drought tolerant plants. The people blamed King Jude for investing such an unpredictable industry. Although there was no way he could have seen the devastation this would cause, he also blamed himself for he knew the Oracle’s words but did not heed them.

The world King Jude oversaw was poor, hungry and the homes were folding in upon themselves. Without any coin, the crown could not fix the roads nor the other infrastructure. He sent many of the youngest to their death and everyone held it against him. It was not long before he had heard the rumblings of a revolution and the arrival of a great hero sent to fulfill the Oracle’s promise. He sent his guards away and waited.

The Great Oak climbed the steps to the central palace. He expected resistance but found none. Pushing the enormous wooden doors open, he saw the man, the man behind all this suffering. King Jude’s face was hollow and dragging under the weight of the guilt he felt as he stared back at the man, the man Greater than him but also the man that reminded him of who he, Jude the Good, used to be. Feeling no need for a defense, The Great Oak walked up to King Jude and simply said “It is over.” Jude nodded as The Great let his sword fall, severing the King’s neck.

The Great cleaned his blade, carefully cleaned up the blood from Jude the Good’s neck, and reverently carried the body outside to a cheering crowd. He felt tied to the King as he knew neither could deny their destinies. He walked down to the cemetery and placed the body in the Tomb reserved for Kings. He pushed the stone door closed and a flash in his brain knocked him to the ground. The word the Oracle whispered screamed like a siren in his head. “His destiny is your destiny just as your destiny is another’s.” Some from the crowd grabbed him and helped him to his feet, but he held fast. The realization that he did not know how to lead or how to run a country, stuck him full force and The Great Oak became weak. As he began to fall again, the crowd lifted their hero and cheered as they placed him on his earned throne. The revolutionaries, now kneeling in front of their chosen King, and stated “The neighboring region has started encroaching on our lands, what would you have us do, The Great King Oak?

Part VII- Cyclic

There once lived a man who was courageous, known for his fortitude, had superior intellect, unmatched strength, and had an insatiable thirst for battle. He was reverent, clean, brave, thrifty, cheerful, obedient, kind, courteous, friendly, helpful, loyal, and trustworthy. All in the land saw him as not only a good man, but the best man that had ever been. He had no flaws, no vices, and genuinely put others needs before his own. He was up for any quest and any task, regardless of personal cost, if it helped anyone else in their life. He was called Yahwynn at birth, and Yahwynn the Savior later in life. Upon visiting an Oracle in a small coastal town, Yahwynn the Savior learn of his destiny and started his journey to the palace of the king…

Once upon a time, there was a shirt. And this shirt was worn by a man.

The shirt and the man had found each other early in both their lives. The man had just left the cotton farm his family owned to find his way in the world. Traveling on little more than pure youthful optimism and a complete naivety, or more likely disregard, for the dangers of the world, the young man made his way throughout the county.

The shirt started as cotton in the same field the young man worked before he left. After being picked, the cotton was sold to the village seamstress. After being spun, dyed, and taken off the loom as cloth, those deft hands sewed the cloth into a shirt, the same shirt that the young man bought the first day of his travels.

Together, the two explored everything this world offer for a young man to enjoy. They stayed up all night drinking and flirting with barmaids in towns across the land and spent nights around campfires when no towns were in sight. They spent years on the road working odd jobs in order to afford the next trek to someplace unknown. Somewhere along the way, they picked up a pair of boots and a belt and all together, the group found all the joy and happiness that an unencumbered man can find.

But the joy of freedom is fleeting. The man, unknowingly, had been always searching for stability. When he found it, the boots were first to be cast off. It happened one day as the man, the shirt, the boots, and belt crested a hill and below them was the most beautiful valley town any of them had seen. Something twitched in the man’s chest and the shirt felt it. Both the man and the shirt realized this place was different than any other place they had seen. They approached town and the twitching in the young man’s chest turned to nervous fluttering of the heart, but the head of the man had never been so calm. Right then, the man decided to retire the boots. They had been re-soled and repaired too many times to be remembered and looked too road worn to acceptable in public. He purchased a new pair of more refined boots, rented a home, found work in the fields, and packed the old leather boots into a chest at the foot of his bed.

The belt was next to be cast aside. One evening, after a long day working the cotton fields, the man, the shirt, and the belt sat at a local inn waiting for a hot meal. As the man looked up to acknowledge the young woman bringing his plate, he caught a glimpse, a mere flash of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. The shirt again felt his heart jump, twitch and flutter as he asked the young barmaid “Who is in the kitchen this evening?” “That would be our new cook, Nora” she replied. That evening, the man took the leather belt, notched and faded from years of use, and placed it in the chest.

Soon after, the man and Nora and the shirt were married. Together, they bought a small home and filled it with love and children. When appropriate occasions arose, the man would reach into the bureau for his favorite shirt. But, as the man aged, the occasions where the shirt was appropriate became fewer and fewer, so the man wore the shirt less and less. But it always was there. Once living in the top drawer, ready to be worn at a moment’s notice, it gradually made its way down the bureau. Though it found a home in the bottom drawer, under several other shirts, it had never found its way into the chest at the foot of the bed as it was the one thing the man could not part with.

The man became a land owner and hired men to work the fields. He and his family had become respected citizens, profitable land owners, and Nora became renowned throughout the region for her cooking skills. He held public appointments of high regard and was generally looked upon as a steadfast and competent man. All the while, a shirt, the shirt, sat in the drawer waiting. His children grew and the not so young man and the shirt became worn and threadbare.

For years, the man and the shirt were separated. Then came the night of his only daughters' wedding. That night he was in a celebratory mood, full of carefree joy and happiness, a feeling that reminded him of a time long past. This memory brought him to the bureau and the same memory asked him to dig through the bottom drawer. Finding the shirt and celebrating their reunion, the man confidently put on the shirt and left for the wedding.

Walking through town to the chapel, the man received odd looks from the fellow townsfolk. He smiled, waved, and let everyone see his joy, but they responded with looks of embarrassment and disapproval. Catching a glimpse of himself in a shop window, he saw what they saw. In the reflection was a wizened old man, a face that had seen life at its best and worst. A man respected and in high standing within society. The shirt, however was stretched at the belly, large at the shoulders, and the dye, though faded, was not the color a distinguished man wore. It was incongruent to see such an eminent man wearing such a sign of immaturity. Lowering his head, he understood that he had grown out of the shirt without even realizing it. He returned home and opened the chest at the foot of his bed for the first time in decades. Reaching in, he removed the belt and the boots. It struck him how grand he remembered these items, but how, now, with the benefit of perspective, they looked tattered. He saw them for what they were, worn pieces of leather. He recalled how the boots would beg him to keep going, keep walking, keep exploring. But he remembered for every beautiful mile they all walked together, there were always days of sleet and rain. He remembered his sore legs, the nights alone by fire, and realized that though those boots that brought him some of his fondest memories were also responsible for loneliness and years of difficulty. He held the belt and remembered as much as he could about all the conquests each notch represented. Then he remembered the lies he had to sell, the many number of times he slept alone, the raucous nights at the bars punctuated by the slow, painful morning. He understood that most of these notches were forgettable, a minor moment of lust, and could not compare to the love he felt now.

Finally, he took the shirt, his favorite shirt. Gone were the bright colors and gone was the strong back and arms that used to fill the shirt. Today, both the man and the shirt were tired, smelled of smoke and wine, and neither were nearly as bold as he remembered. Though both he and the shirt were full of stories, the man realized these stories also came at a cost. Again, he saw the joy and happiness he enjoyed early in life overshadowed by the solitude that filled the average day during that time. He realized that he was holding on to the good memories and jettisoning the bad and that the reality of his travels were much different than the few wonderful moments he could recall. He placed the boots and belt back into the chest and gently folded the shirt. Laying what was left of his youth and youngmanhood on top of the other items, he shut and locked the chest for good.

It took him some time to begin to enjoy himself at the wedding, but after eating the wonderful feast his wife prepared, drinking the fine wine his in-laws purchased, and dancing with his daughter, who was his entire world, he, under the glow of happiness and alcohol, sang and laughed. The clock stumbled forward as the guests greeted the morning and when the festivities finally came to end, he and his wife found their way home. As he placed his wife’s arm in crook of his own, he knew he would trade all the youthful travel, all the adventures, all the women, and all the late nights for THIS walk, THIS woman, and THIS night. And that, if given a chance, he would make the same decisions, the same mistakes, and lead the same life, but only if it always brought him back to this exact second.

One morning, a Prince woke up. This, in itself, was not unusual, for he had woken up every morning since his birth. Today, however, he woke up to find that no one recognized him as the Prince. Waking up to anonymity should have been unusual, but this particular Prince had grown accustomed to it. The first time it happened, many years ago, he awoke to find guards at his bedside. They grabbed him and threw him into the palace cells before he could utter a word. He remained locked in the jail until the next morning, when, as he had done since birth, he woke up. This time the guards realized he was the Prince, released him, and apologized extensively. Over the next year, this occurred three more times, and each time, the Prince pleaded with his captors to look harder at his face. But everyone saw him as a stranger.

The fourth time he woke up in anonymity, he heard the guards climbing the stairs and before they could enter his room, he ran out of the palace and found his way to the nearby town. There in town, he again searched for someone, anyone that would recognize him. He wandered the streets and the villagers were confused why this young man, dressed in pajamas, would ask them if they knew who he was. The villagers, concerned, called the guards on him forcing the Prince to hide. He chose a doorway to stay for the night and in the morning, a beggar with whom he shared the doorway with shook him awake. As the Prince turned toward the man, a look of surprise and fear spread across the man’s face and the Prince knew that he had returned to being himself. Winding his way through town, he saw familiarity return to the faces that a mere 12 hours ago brushed him aside. He wandered back to the palace and beginning to understand the circumstances, the Prince told his servants that some days a stranger, a friend of the Prince, would be in his room though the Prince himself would not. They were not to worry and would no longer need to send guards.

A few weeks later, the Prince again awoke in anonymity. This time, without the Palace guard chasing him, he was able to plan. After dressing and taking some coin, he decided he would go to town and test this strange affliction. Entering the town, he began his experiment by verbally reprimanding the first beggar he came across. He yelled for an hour about the hygiene and the deplorable condition of the beggar and reduced the man to tears. Satisfied that an impression had been left, the Prince spent the night in a nearby inn. As the morning light showed the world his true self, the Prince found the same beggar and asked what he remembered of the man who berated at him the day before. “Average height, my lord,” said the beggar “blonde, maybe brown hair, but could have been black. His face seems to escape me as does his size. Strangely, sir, the more I try to remember him, the less detail I seem to recall.” “So, nothing like me?” asked the Prince. “No, but I could not rightly say, sir. But no, no not you,” stammered the beggar. The Prince gave the man more gold than an average man made in a month and sent him on his way. The Prince went back to the palace and waited for the next morning of anonymity, satisfied that he could use this strange power for good.

So that is how it started. Occasionally, the good Prince would wake up with no one able to recognize him. He then would spend the day outside the palace, walking through town as a shadowed stranger. At first, he would just wander town and stay at the Inn, watching and interacting with the people who had been so removed from him his whole life. He saw the quaint, yet happy, lives these people enjoyed. He also saw how the decisions he and his family made directly affected the people under their rule. He used this knowledge to better influence rulings and become not only the good natured and morally straight Prince, but a ruler of the people, someone the people trusted to have their best interest in mind. On the days of anonymity, he spread happiness both in person and as the Prince. He gave gold to the poor, brought water and food to the infirmed, and helped finance struggling vendors. All this while taking the information gathered to better inform decisions at the high court. Things were going well for the kingdom and the Prince anonymity was the reason.

The kingdom prospered, the people became more comfortable, and the Prince was bored. There were fewer poor, the weak were healthy, and the vendors were flush with coin. The novelty of anonymity had worn off, the Prince now found himself walking through town seeking, searching for something to ignite that original excitement.

After one such walk through town, he returned to the Inn early and saw the townsfolk coming in from the fields. Fresh from a hard day’s work, the citizens were taking advantage of the entertainment the Inn provided. The Prince, first taken aback by the brazenness of the morally questionable activities, realized that tomorrow he would return to his life in the palace, but today, maybe just today, he had no responsibility and no consequences. “The gift of anonymity may be fleeting,” the Prince thought, “why not take advantage of it and spread some more joy in a more nontraditional way.” Walking up to the barman, the Prince announced he would purchase the next round of drinks for the crowd. This statement was answered with cheers and whistles and the Prince had to turn down several other patrons as they asked if he would like a drink. As the Prince took in the joy associated with helping others, the beggar he reprimanded on all those months ago approached him. The man, now glowing under the embrace of a good mead, asked the Prince if he cared to wager on a game. The Prince, embarrassed by his previous encounter with the man but realizing the beggar still could not recognize him, agreed. Unencumbered by alcohol, the Prince handedly beat the man and used the winnings to purchase the bar another round of drinks. After beating several other patrons and buying several other rounds, the Prince retired to his room, fulfilled in the fact the villagers had a night to remember.

The next morning, he was once again the Prince, but to the village, the shadowed stranger was a hero. Something about this disappointed the Prince. When he had used information collected during his anonymity, he, and only he, received the recognition. But something was different about directly helping people under the cloak of anonymity, something that itched at the Prince’s brain. The next time he woke up to anonymity, he took off to the town and entered the Inn immediately. He waited nearly the whole of the day until the workers returned from their professions and started their festivities. Cards again were the game and the Prince won frequently. Again, he paid for drinks, and again, the next morning he found his anonymous self as the most popular person in town. “Why do I do this for their enjoyment and none of my own?” the Prince asked himself as he headed to the village the next morning of anonymity. Set on spreading happiness but also wanting some of that happiness for himself, the Prince gambled on darts, cards, and dice. But when it came to drinks, he chose to partake. He drank heavily to lighten his heart and woke up the next morning a little later than usual and a little more worn than he had ever been. Nevertheless, he understood why the townsfolk gambled and drank, for he remembered how much everyone, even the Prince, enjoyed the previous night.

This went on for years, the price waking up in anonymity, running to town, celebrating all night, and returning the next. Slowly, gambling on games led to gambling on fights, light drinks led to heavy mixes and to more illicit treatments. When he won, he took the coin, and when he lost, he robbed to play again. As he began to embrace this consequence-free life, his behavior under the cloak of anonymity had grown more and more volatile and the once questionable Inn became the most reputable place the Prince would visit. He stayed in places with people unbecoming of most, but especially unbecoming of a Prince. He would intimidate bartenders to have debt removed, he played cards on loans he never expected to repay, and he had no qualms about fighting anyone who defied him. Each night got more and more corrupt and each morning the Prince would return to the palace less and less remorseful.

The shadowed stranger that would once bring joy, help the poor, assist the weak, and buy drinks was now a menace by reputation. The sight of him coming into town sent all but the roughest villagers into hiding. One night, last night in fact, the shadowed stranger played cards at the Inn, drank too much, and lost quickly. So, in what had become old hat, he walked outside and robbed the first villager to cross his path. Returning to the game, the stranger once again found his pockets empty in just a few bad hands. One more robbery and another poorly played game led the stranger to a side street where he waited. This time, opportunity was not easy. Unwilling to give up his coin, the villager the stranger chose to rob fought back and the stranger, after a night of bad loses and cheap mead, roughly threw the villager to ground and beat the man to death. As the guard hauled him away from the scene, the stranger laughed. He fell asleep on the hard, cold floor smiling knowing that tomorrow, tomorrow they would be sorry.

One morning, a Prince woke up. This, in itself, was not unusual, for he had woken up every morning since his birth. Today, however, he woke up to find that no one recognized him as the Prince. Waking up to anonymity should have been unusual, but this particular Prince had grown accustomed to it. Today, however, was different. This was the second day in a row he was not the Prince. He awoke on the hard, cold floor of a cell to a guard sharpening an axe and the sounds of angry mob outside. Awaiting the flash of recognition to come across the face of the guards and only find looks of contempt, the Prince realized that he was no longer the Prince and he was no longer anonymous. He had become the Stranger, both in his soul and in the eyes of the villagers, and the Stranger had sealed their fate the previous night. The guards grabbed the Stranger and led him through the incensed crowd to the scaffold. As they positioned his body onto the Executioner’s Block, one guard asked, quite simply “Who even are you?” The Stranger just lowered his eyes and whispered “I don’t know anymore.”

As goosebumps cover my arms, I sit, elbows resting on the thick shellac covering a damaged bar and press my forehead into interlocked fingers. The first few horn notes from a song I have never heard reminds of the “The Army Song” and I close my eyes as the cold sensation spreads. As each hair stiffens and stands taller, my back naturally does the same. I sit up straighter, stop drinking, and listen with reverence to each word and every beat of the song only playing in my head. That song finishes as the jukebox continues and I relax. I look to the patrons sitting in the adjacent stools and notice the same reaction. The one to the left, a 22-year-old, is young and anxious. His eyes are bright and clear, taking in the world and learning all he can from everything. His drink is a cheap bottled beer, all he can afford a low-ranking infantryman’s salary. He peels the label back, look at the attractive waitress longingly, and rubs the still raised hair on his forearm. As he places the empty bottle on the bar, another patron sends him another with a “Thank you for your service.” He nods in appreciation. He is stick thin and athletic with an air of misguided confidence and self-assurance. The alcohol flushes his clean-shaven face. The shorn sides of his head, the small patch of hair slightly longer on top, and the clothes, obviously from the base store, give away his chosen career. He is at this bar alone and looking for companionship. He eagerly looks to the door at odd intervals with contained disappointment. This happens now, and, as he inevitably turns back to his beer, I see the rare face of innocence. He is here because he quietly wishes the waitress would notice him, but she has never and will never remember him, so he looks for other patrons to make rash and poor decisions with. He does not know, nor does he care, about the next three years, let alone the next thirty. He is serving his country during a war he does not agree with because that is what he was taught to do. He is repaying his debt to a country that held him and raised him. He knows he will go to war, he knows of the dangers and the cost, but he is willing, moreover eager, to complete the task he signed up for. He is ignorant and stubborn, strong and fast, and the epitome of youth. He is on his way to Iraq and all he can think of is the pleasure derived from a beautiful woman’s touch.

I am in the middle. I am a hairy, unkempt contemptuous oaf of a man. My eyes are slits, leery of all, and mostly hidden by my lowered brow. I rarely look up from a Black and Tan, my drink of choice when I’m drinking away my veteran’s pension. My world is one of mistrust: mistrust of people and the government I so fully supported. My hand aches as does my head. A nonverbal exchange is made as I finish my beer and the waitress delivers another. “Thank you for your service” I say with the irony lost on her. She is the same beautiful creature the 22-year-old longs for, but I am older, jaded, and cognizant of the patron server relationship. While he wants to make an impression on her, I can only look downward knowing full well she remembers me. She remembers me from last night, the night before that, and from all the nights and days I have settled into this barstool. The sharp angular features of my youth have softened, both in the face and the midsection. In retaliation for years of forced conformity, both the hair on top of my head and on my face is longer than socially acceptable. I think I don’t shave because I am lazy, but as the night goes on and my heavy heart and lighter head begin to speak more honestly, I know I desire to hide behind this all. I do maintain some composure. My hat may be dirty, but my clothes are clean. No one mistakes me for a derelict. I just appear as one of those people who has harder time than most people when handling life and the world. My arms are thick and hard and my back strong, but my hand, the left one, is weakened by blasts and surgeries and the dull ache in my head often flares up, causing impatient outbursts that leads me to self-prescribed alcohol. I’m not sure why I fought anymore, I just know they operated on me after I nearly died for them, and when I was unable to do my job, they gave a thousand dollars a month and no transferable work skills. I work for minimum wage under the supervision of nineteen-year-olds. They grace me with their condescension because my memory, due to the blasts, is not as sharp as theirs. They do not know I’m a veteran, a decorated war hero, a Purple Heart recipient. All they know is that I am almost 30 and I work for them, so I must be worthless. And so, they treat me that way. All day, every day, and afterward, I come into this bar, I sit down, and I drink enough to forget those things that even my bruised brain refuses to let go of. No one knows who I am or what I did, and most wouldn’t believe me if I told them because I don’t look like any other soldier they have ever seen.

To my right, the stool is taken up by a 40-year-old leaning over a glass of water. After many years of irresponsibility, he has nearly stopped drinking but certainly stopped drinking alone. He looks at me with wizened eyes that are just as bright as the 22-year-old’s, and a stout, knowing expression. His attitude is one of hope and happiness. His clothes are pristinely pressed, and his hair is sharp and short. His well-groomed stubble is purposeful as he radiates confidence. This confidence, however, is different than that of the 22-years-old’s. This confidence is one of a man that has seen life, seen death, and decided to do his best to beat both. He is a proud veteran and is willing to talk to anyone about his service. His head aches and occasionally so does his hand, but he can control the pain because he realizes the alcohol is not a cure, only a crutch. He is still strong, but tight and sharp minded, making him more than the pile of useless muscles I am. The waitress is polite and kind as they speak with no pretenses. He has a home and wife, he only comes here to humor me and show me what I have given up. No one speaks, but the younger man looks at the older man with respect, the man to the kid with envy. I look at the both of them with the contempt and they return the scowl. We cannot stand each other. I disappoint the them both and they show me my biggest failures and regrets. I am a battered, beaten, and cynical version of the first, and a futile waste to the latter. I sit here, every night, giving half my paycheck to the jukebox and the other half to the waitress. Someone, the young man I think, plays “I’m Proud to be an American” and I weep. The blasts ruined my emotional responses, so I cannot control it even if I chose to. I just choke up and heavy, slow tears fall from my eyes. My two other-selves cry too, but unlike me, they know why. “Tomorrow,” I say to the other two, “tomorrow, I will do better, I’ll make you proud, both of you, but tonight, I will have one more.” One more song, one more drink, and probably one more night in this bar. As the last of the beer hits the back of my throat and the waitress hands me another, I promise me, all three of me, that things will change.

I have gotten pretty good at lying to myselves.