there's a bluebird in my heart and his name is humility

there's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I'm too tough for him, I say, stay in there, I'm not going to let anybody see you.

You take a Russian Bear, a beautiful cuckold, a murderous baby, an emerald apex(whatever the fuck that is?), an alleged vampire, two smooth brained ex-pats, and one emotionally inept Legend and throw them all into a ring. What do you get? War.

You get war.

Originally, Rob was somewhat conflicted when it was announced he had been drafted on Ivan... sorry, JCH's War Games team. On one hand, as with most people, he's always secretly wanted people to like him. There had been some part of him that was a bit hurt when he wasn't picked to begin with. Childhood trauma and all of that. In fact, you could summarize most of Rob's ailments, emotional or otherwise, into a neat little package of a single childhood experience. He still thinks about it from time to time. It was a perfect day, not a cloud on the horizon. His dad was passed out drunk on the couch before the afternoon humidity even set it. It was a good drunk, too, the old man didn't even stir when Rob clumsily dropped the baseball out of his mitt while tiptoeing past. To the local ball field he went.

He can still smell the fresh cut grass and feel the sun on his back as if he were standing in that field today, watching a group of boys playing a pick up game. The same thoughts have run through his head a million times since. Sometimes they look a little different, but they're of the same substance.

If they only knew how good I was, they'd be over here begging me to be on their team.

But, also, I hope they don't notice me because I'd probably just fuck it up anyways.

So yes, Rob wanted to be picked for JCH's team. The other side of that coin is that Rob is stricken with an awful fear. That second train of thought has been an express train ripping through his life and forcing him to keep everyone at arm's length since that day. You can't get too close, you might mess up the works.

And so, Rob despises other people. Or appears to. Or has, at least. Through his process with the Father over his time in PRIME, that voice has gotten smaller and smaller. Much like his last few months with the ever-growing population of Complete Abandon, he has found himself becoming open to being a part of. A part of his War Games team, a part of Complete Abandon, and a part of the world around him.

“Maybe you should write about it," one of the addicts suggests.

Unbeknownst to Rob, a group of Complete Abandon has been listening to his morning conversation with the Father.

Fucking addicts. Rob has always been more partial to alcoholics. Thoroughbreds. You've really got to give it all up to hit bottom in the bottle. Anyone can take the bullet train with a needle, pipe, or straw. It takes grit to wash your life in booze and set it on fire. Not that Rob doesn’t enjoy ALL of these things, but he always comes back to the bottle. Like a finely tailor suit, it just fit him.

"What the fuck is this? Middle School? Should I write in my fucking diary?" Rob snaps back out of instinct. He isn’t even angry at the kid, just stressed about this entire War Games thing.

The young man Rob has just verbally accosted holds his feelings on his sleeve. Being read the riot act by your de facto leader has that effect. Rob, seeing the hurt in the kid's eyes, remembers the Father's words about the growing population around him.

"These are your children. When you look at them, see them as such. Look at them like a parent might. Picture them playing in the yard with the innocence and wonder that accompanies childhood. At some point, each of these pigeons was a baby that someone held great hope for, but the world and those people have cast them to live in the cold shadow of rejection. You are to be the sunlight that warms their souls."

"I'm sorry," Rob says while putting a hand on the young addict's shoulder, "you have to forgive me. I'm a work in progress."

"My parents both died while I was still on the streets. I did some really foul shit to them, you know? Stealing dad's cancer meds and mom's disability checks and shit. In rehab I felt like I couldn't unpack my shit with them cause, y'know, they're fucking dead. One of the counselors had me write a letter to them. I don't know, writing helped me unpack it."

"Out of the mouth of babes. You learn a lot when you are willing to listen." The Father whispers to Rob.

Humility. This word may as well be from the Dead Sea Scrolls. The Father has yet to lead him astray, though.

"And you found peace with this by writing about it?" Rob asks the kid.

The kid's eyes light up like glimmers of a sunrise on the ocean waves.

"Yeah, man, it's like something magic happens when you put ink to paper." The kid responds.

Lem, whose ears perked at Rob's quick tempered response, joins in.

"We all do it, Rob. Give it a shot. It can't hurt anything. We promise a full refund if you're not satisfied." Lem laughs with a grin.

"Yeah, okay motherfucker." Rob laughs, jokingly punching Lem in the arm.

He keeps up the act in front of the others, not committing to this silly idea.

there's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I pour whiskey on him and inhale cigarette smoke and the whores and the bartenders and the grocery clerks never know that he's in there.

At night the camp moves incessantly like it were a living thing, movement ebbing and flowing throughout like the soft rise and fall of its chest.

Rob sits in solitude with Boots watching the city lights twinkling on the horizon.

He thinks of Lem's words when they were in Philly.

"City skylines remind me of how small I am." Rob mouths to Boots.

A pen and an empty piece of paper sit in the space before Rob. He sat down expecting to just inherently write a masterpiece. His manifesto. But the only life he's added to this paper is multiple cave wall sketches of penises and the word cock. About fifteen times. He really should talk to someone about this.

Staring at this (nearly) blank page makes him feel really silly and exposed.

"This is fucking stupid."

Frustrated with his lack of progress, Rob throws the paper to the side and lies down with an exhausted sigh. But he doesn't sleep. War Games. Don Winters. His teammates. Complete Abandon. All these things and more lay heavy on his head and heart.

A single shooting star streaks across the sky above.

"Make a wish, Boots."

The dog whimpers, nestling his nose into Rob's armpit to cuddle.

wants to get out. but I'm too tough for him,. I say,. stay down, do you want to mess. me up?. you want to screw up the. works?.

"God DAMN, that is some good coffee." Rob marvels.

The chemtrails of jets steak across the daybreak and Rob thinks to himself that they look like warheads, streaking out with a silent violence towards their intended targets. Mindless. Completely apathetic to the destruction they will cause.

The camp is quiet aside from the sound of Boots rolling around playfully at Rob's feet. Some days this is the only solitude Rob gets.

He may not like them, but Rob cannot help admiring the community that has grown up around him in this group that calls themselves Complete Abandon.

They are the forgotten children of the world. The drug addicts and drunks and homeless and destitute. Those who you look away from on purpose because to meet their gaze on the corner or at the red light is just too goddamn sad—the lost souls of the underbelly. Victims of a world that has not made room for those who can't seem to confirm.

How fitting that Rob finds his home here.

From his vantage point, Rob cannot help but see a glimpse of the bigger picture.

The dishes are being washed, the food is being cooked, and the beds are being made. They have been working tirelessly to make the crucifix that Don Winters will hang from at Culture Shock. The fiends and wet drunks brought in from the cesspool that has become the “American Rehabilitation System” are fed a mixture of honey and raw eggs to keep the demons at bay as they’re detoxed. Lem has even begun training some of the more promising athletes in the fundamentals of wrestling.

People are getting better. Even him.

They’re people that normally would not mix. Besides their desperation, they have no common, uniting thread. Well, they didn’t, rather, before meeting Lem and Rob.

“It’s time you address them.” The Father sits smoking, always smoking.

Rob smooths out his gray mustache with a calloused thumb and forefinger. It does little practically, but it’s great for dramatic effect.

“And say what?” Rob asks with just a hint of sarcasm.

What could he possibly offer these people?

“Robert, you have the words. Say the things to them that you needed me to say to you to awaken a champion.”

Rob takes a beat.

“No, I can’t do that.”

“Humility, Robert. Humility is the foundation of all great leaders. You may think this cowering back and shirking the light you radiate is humility, but it’s not. You're used to humiliation, the ugly cousin often mistaken. Who are you to hide away your gifts? Who are you to deprive these young men of your leadership? They have hurt the same way that you hurt and you can help them find their way. You can be the way. Humility isn’t thinking less of yourself, it’s thinking of yourself less."

Maybe the Father is right. These people are naturally drawn to Rob. Whether he wants to be or not, they seem to have appointed him their leader. But...

"What if I fuck it up?" Rob asks in earnest, once again like a little boy with his baseball and mitt.

"Good. Bad. These labels have no place in our work, on your path. They are the way of weak minds that are trying to see the world through rose colored glasses. Trying to influence the outcomes of things. We are above that. Being a leader does not mean that you get the things you want. Greatness isn't defined by what goes your way. What matters most is how you walk through the fire. They are not looking up to you to be some hero for them. Just keep walking through the fire and the rest will take care of itself. Either way, this isn't about you, it's about them. Your whole life you have seen yourself only as the top of the heap or the bottom of the pile. No inbetween. Go be a worker among workers. A man among men."

-

The remainder of the day Rob spends in service. He helps clean the mountains of dishes from lunch. Someone teaches him how to sew and he repairs a number of his companions' articles of clothing. Laughter is shared and he is part of it. He learns the names of everyone he interacts with and listens to their stories. As a final exclamation to he day, he finds whoever has been making the coffee and commends them on the quality.

He asks Lem to gather everyone in the morning before breakfast. Lem can't contain his excitement that Rob is finally going to speak to the entire Complete Abandon.

When he lies down to sleep that night, his head is lighter on the pillow than it ever has been.

there's a bluebird in my heart that. wants to get out. but I'm too clever, I only let him out. at night sometimes. when everybody's asleep.. I say, I know that you're there,. so don't be . sad.

A general hum buzzes throughout the camp.

Often people in the camp work together in acts of service. They eat in a soup kitchen slash family meal style.

But they have yet to all be gathered together like this.

Rows of the dregs of society, their eyes at various stages of light based on how long they've been in the camp. Most of their clothes are from a donation bin. They've spent a lifetime living in the stains of other peoples' best years.

They form a loose phalanx formation.

From inside his RV, Rob can hear his heart beating in his ears, which are red and hot to the touch.

"What the fuck do I say to them?" Rob asks the Father.

"You've made a life out of talking. Well, fighting and talking. Now you have stage fright?" The Father lovingly jests.

"This is different. I've made a life out of talking about fighting. I'm not going to go up there and talk about cracking fucking heads to this lot."

The Father draws on his cigarette in honest contemplation.

"Speak your truth, Robert. No more, no less. I'll be with you. See you out there." The Father exits the RV, leaving Rob alone with his thoughts.

Rob looks over to the paper he had scribbled on.

"What the fuck, it can't hurt."

All my life, I wanted to be in a group. A team. This is probably the first time I've ever said as much. My circle has always been small. I've said plenty of fucking times that that was a choice, but the reality is I don't know that many people could stomach my bullshit. It's easy to keep your circle small when you're a piece of shit. 

Now, all of the sudden, I have these people around me. The Father, Lem, the rest of Complete Abandon, and my War Games' team. And it's been hell. I've felt like that random french fry in the onion rings. Afraid I won't fit in. Afraid someone will figure me out for the fraud I am and I'll be alone again. So I've tried to hurt them before I can be hurt. 

But, despite my best efforts, they haven't fucked off or fired me. Ivan and JCH have been nothing but welcoming. Max gave me the tapes of Winters. Arthur and I made peace. All of the others have, at the least, fucking tolerated me. 

And this group has been kind of like Boots. The more I tried to push them away, the closer they fucking got. It turns out they're not pieces of shit. I am.  

I realized yesterday that I hadn't even learned most of their names. Probably because I thought they'd be fucking gone. 

Maybe I was wrong. 

then I put him back, but he's singing a little in there, I haven't quite let him die and we sleep together like that with our secret pact

The sun is blinding as Rob steps from the RV. It feels warm on his face, a nice contrast to the cool breeze drifting through the air.

He stands in front of Complete Abandon in its entirety.

"Soon we embark on a journey across the pond. We, uh, we are going to go together. Which is great." Rob stumbles through clumsily.

There is a scattered cough or snort from the crowd.

"You know, uh, it was really great getting to know some of you yesterday. So, you know, thanks for including me." Rob continues

He feels the Father's hand on his shoulder. "Son, speak your truth."

"Ah, fuck. Listen, guys, I'm no fucking leader and I'm sure as shit no messiah. I'm just a fucking guy. Yes, I've found a path to freedom from all the chains, but I'm not special. The truth is I'm a dick. When all of y'all first stated coming around I couldn't fucking stand you. The same isn't quite true for the majority of my War Games teammates, but I felt indifference towards them at best. I've not been a great teammate."

Rob clears his throat and continues.

"See I've spent my whole life scared. Afraid to face up to the harms I've done, terrified that I'm going to fuck up. And I let this corrosive shit keep me from ever getting close to anyone. I fancied myself some type of fucking lone wolf, but the reality is I knew that motherfuckers would leave when they found out what kind of piece of shit I really am. So it was a get or get got game with me and people. And holy shit y'all, this has been a lonely fucking way to live. I've hurt everyone who ever loved me. On purpose."

Heads are beginning to nod in the crowd. These words are resonating with the crowd. Rob is loose, free - in his element. He begins moving around, accuentating his points with hand gestures.

"Y'all, this fucking world is rotten and we're all hurt. It's a goddamn fool that thinks he can make it on his own. You know what on my own got me? Crying in Mon-row, Georgia with no electricity drinking from a warm vodka bottle and wondering who's gonna clean my fucking brains off this bathtub! Got me tied to all these fucking outcomes. Wins and losses and titles and shit. Chasing the cash and prizes to try and stuff that fucking hole inside full of bullshit just so I could maybe stand to be alone with myself for another five minutes without tasting gun oil. WELL NO FUCKING MORE!"

The crowd jeers and a few applaud.

"I've always married humility with humiliation in my mind. Humility is not humiliation. I need you all. I need my partners in War Games. And I owe all of you. You've shown me how to be a part of something. How to just be a member of the team instead of constantly ranking myself against every person I meet. Fuck, that's exhausting. But the point here, is you. YOU have accepted me for who I am. The world out there," Rob points, "they think we're scum. Well, guess what? I am fucking scum. I've seen what this world does to scared men and I will no longer be scared. And you won't either. WE will do what we need to in order to protect what we have here. WE will find the broken and the beaten and the damned and we will offer them the liberation that we've found together. And those that don't want to accept it? Well, we'll give them penance."

Roar is the only word to describe what erupts from the crowd. Rob can feel the Father's proud glare on him and, for the first time in some time, he feels proud of himself.

Rob walks out into the crowd and joins Complete Abandon as one of of many.

and it's nice enough to make a man weep, but I don't weep, do you?

You can smell the green soap and aquaphor. A symphony of tattoo guns play dueling banjos. The usual chatter droning between a tattoo artist who has to ask the same five questions over and over all day and a client who thinks they're the only one that gets to have this conversation.

Rob stands like a monolith in the mirror. His eyes move to and fro in thoughtful examination.

A dribble of blood rolls down Rob's chest from his newest tattoo.

"I love it, Cap. Thank you." He calls out over his shoulder to the tattoo artist now wiping down his station.

The artist, Cap, looks like Gallagher if he had done a lifetime of heroin and gained 40 pounds.

"Gnarly." Cap replies. "Let it rest a few minutes and we'll snap some pictures."

The Father stands beside Rob, his eyes tracing the lines.

"What do you think?" Rob says with the nervous smile of a child holding their scribbled shit up to a parent, hoping that they'll be told it's a masterpiece. That they're special.

"I cannot think of anything that would fit you better, my boy." The Father replies.

Forever etched into Rob's skin, right over his heart, is a bold and vibrant bluebird. Tiny little musical notes flow from the beak of the bird up to Rob's collarbone. There is no cage anymore, no bars to restrict it from flight. Like Rob, this animal has been freed.

An ever present reminder for Rob that if he just allows it, he's part of something bigger than him.

Humility.

FIN