And I Think My Spaceship Knows Which Way to Go

It's easier to lose than to win.

The sun explodes from its slumber like a child on Christmas morning, determined to wake all those around it and sure that they share the same excitement. Various reds and purples and yellows paint the horizon. The morning light casts a peculiar glow, as if all things it touches are luminescent somehow. Soft songs ring out from nests as the early migrators bask in the literal energy coming from the burning sphere peeking from beyond the farthest line of sight.

A light steam dances up and dissipates from Rob Williams' coffee mug, joining all of this neatly orchestrated beauty.

Atemberaubend.

Our guy is no stranger to loss. He's experienced all kinds of loss, really. From the phantom limb feeling of losing his parents to the all too familiar realization (to him) that you're deep in the cut and lost in the sauce. Heartbreak is a word that you might even use to describe his life, if you were so inclined to define his saga and had a flair for the dramatic. His life has been filled with more sunsets than sunrises. Yeah, he's had his fill of heartache.

But this one? The effortless ease of his presence does not scream sorrow. In fact, if anything, he looks at peace. Not just "head turned off", either, although that would be enough of a change from his neutral position of all wound up. This is that type of magnetic acceptance that few people radiate. Not something usually attributed to our boy. Yet here he sits, finger slowly tapping the rhythm of "Space Oddity".

Beside him sits the Father, cigarette burning as always. They don't speak or look at one another or even acknowledge one another. You might think they were strangers here outside some coffee shop tacitly sharing an experience. They're not at a coffee shop, though, and they're not strangers by any means. No, they're in whatever vacant lot Complete Abandon is calling home on the road from Rhode Island to Boston. The "followers" are beginning to stir, little pings of life appearing in clusters like lightning throughout the camp.

Soon they will be up, at his heels nipping for his attention like feral dogs. Begging Rob for scraps in the form of crumbs of wisdom. Or hoping to overhear his conversations with the Father. They'd likely be looking to do things for him to check their box for "spirit of service". Lem has created something of a program for them. It was well aligned with the recovery steps many of these dregs they had taken in were accustomed to, which made it easily digestible. Structured action based in principles with the promise of some type of salvation.. or some shit. Rob's not really sure, he tries his best to ignore whatever the fuck it is they're doing despite him being somewhat of a central figure.

If he's being honest with himself, and this is like real late at night all alone head on the pillow type honest with himself, some of them have grown on him.

Maybe it's because they remind him of the mut perched at his feet that he lovingly calls Boots. Boots is a stray Lem picked up god knows where that basically picked Rob. At first Rob was less than enthused. But, like the idiots always trying to iron his clothes and shit, he can't help but return love to something that offers it so freely with no strings.

"I think you're finally beginning to see." The Father finally breaks the silence.

"See what?" Rob responds without looking away from the glorious sunrise reaching its peak.

He realizes there's a whole lot of what he was looking for in the bottle and in the needle here. In this moment and on this path, there exists something resembling acceptance. He doesn't need to be at odds with the entire world.

"What I've been telling you all along, my child. This is not about winning or losing. Your path, your calling, is a higher one than a simple W or L etched in a column next to your name. PRIME does not have scales capable of weighing your merits. You've finally begun to see that no one can give you anything nor take anything from you. My child, you are ascending."

Normally the very mention of the recent loss at the hands of the Rhinestone Redneck would trigger that internal calamity. How many times did Charlotte or John innocently mention a loss just to have Rob enter full on berserker in whatever locker room or trailer or rehab was unfortunate enough to play host to his rage? A lot. A lot of fucking times. Plenty of drywall and furniture had felt the wrath. The reality of it all, though, is that their mentioning the loss wasn't any more than salt in an open wound.

The loss being brought up wasn't the fire, just an accelerant. The secret is that the fire was always burning. Fists always balled and teeth always clenched, Rob lived waiting for a reason.

"Yes," Rob affirms with the slightest nod, still preoccupied with the wondrous rolling visuals before them. "I'll admit, I wanted to win. Of course I wanted to win. It's all I've known for so long."

Rob rubs his bare foot across Boots' back as if connecting his behavior to the primal nature of the animal.

"It was all just instinct. The bell rang and I was off. Unleashed. I'm not saying I don't care about winning anymore, but I'm sure not smarting much from this loss. Normally the wheels would be churning with fear and anger. How am I going to get this fucker? Is this it? Was it all a fluke? I keep waiting for it, expecting it, but it's just not there this time. This is... different." Rob finally looks away from the sunrise to the Father as if hoping for some explanation.

"It's not different, Robert. You are. You are free from the bondage of self. Oh, how long it has kept you hostage."

The selection of words used by the Father matter. He's an expert craftsman and performer and he meticulously chooses words that will move Rob. It evokes images of what Rob has felt his entire life, like he were some poor sot chained to a radiator in a dark room just waiting for that door to open again. Waiting for the horrors to begin again. How awful is that? To live a life with that all of this anxiety and anger and powerlessness just balled up in the pit of your stomach?

All the while he's treated everyone in his life like they're the poor sot. John and Charlotte and his old tag partner Reggie Rivid and the countless others who just wanted to love him. One hostage after another.

"Sometimes you have to shoot the hostage." The Father says as if he can read Rob's mind. Maybe he can. Maybe their relationship is spiritual and metaphysical. Or maybe he just set himself up for a dinger.

Rob lets that roll across the palate, savoring it. Maybe he'll use that in a promo at some point.

"So what now? We've exposed Don Winters for the fraud that he is. I'm sure he'll find a way to spin this, evangelical fucking prick that he is. I would think, naturally, going after Diamonds makes logical sense, but I just don't feel pressed to do so."

The steam from Rob's coffee and the smoke from the Father's cigarette mingle in the air. The Father just smiles, as is par for the course, and gently rests his right hand on Rob's shoulder.

"More will be revealed."