A Handshake Above

I sit paralyzed on the sofa with my phone in hand, my thumb hovering over the login button to my Instagram account. I draw in a deep breath and coax myself as if an internal pep talk can undo the horror I am about to see. I let out an exhale and tap the login. Fifty-six new direct messages. I swipe up the notification. One thing at a time, I tell myself. I scroll to my post from the severe weather event I covered two days ago on TV. 2, 336 comments. My heart begins to race as I begin scrolling through them.

Lousy forecaster, worst one in the Southeast. How did he even graduate from college?

Unfollowed and lost a viewer. This is a fake news channel with fake weathermen. First, the chief meteorologist, Brett Jepson, can’t prepare us for record-breaking snow; now he can’t prepare our families for tornado season. Done with this station and channel.

Absolute cheat of a “chief” meteorologist. Probably a cheater and a low-life in real life, too. Piece of bull.

Without thinking, I take the phone and slam it face down on the coffee table in front of me, not caring if the screen cracks. I stand up and begin pacing around the living room of my two-bedroom apartment that I—we—had just barely moved into. The freshly painted modern white walls laugh in mockery at me as I wring my hands through my hair, trying to figure out what happened over the past forty-eight hours.

The phone rings with that iconic Hannah Montana ringtone reserved for only one special person in the world: Carissa, my wife. Why did she have to call at the most inopportune times? Stop being selfish, I tell myself. I scoop my phone up from the table, relieved and surprised to find the screen intact. With all the willpower I can muster, I swipe the answer button and face my shame again.

“Hey, love,” I start.

“Hey. Checking on you.”

I let out a sigh. “I’m alright, Rissa.”

I can almost see the persnickety look saunter across her face.

“No. You’re not. By the way, I don’t think lying to your wife on your twenty-eighth day of marriage is a good way to future-proof it.”

“Okay. You win.” I pause for a moment, trying to figure out some measly excuse for my present situation.

“They fired me, Rissa. It’s done.”

This time, it was Rissa’s turn to pause.

“You don’t know if you’re done forever. Just for now. Besides, if that pharmacy tech job hadn’t come along for me, we would be in more dire straits than we are now. Have faith.”

“Rissa, c’mon with the crazy optimism already. We applied for this apartment on two incomes, remember?”

Rissa sighs. “Brett, sometimes I really don’t know about you. Just three months ago, you were the one telling me to follow my dreams and believe in them, and you see how God opened doors, and now you’re acting like the apocalypse is about to happen. Listen to yourself.”

“Whatever. I just can’t give myself false hope right now. If that helps you right now, fine, but I just can’t.”

As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I wanted to take them back.

Another pause ensues from my wife. “I’ll be home late today. I gotta run some errands after work.”

“Okay, well, I’ll try to make myself productive around the house or something.”

“No,” Rissa responded swiftly.

“Don’t isolate. House chores can wait. Text Terrence and see if you guys can meet up this afternoon.”

“I guess this is when I’m supposed to say, ‘Yes, ma’am?’” I tease.

A slight chuckle emerges from Rissa before she speaks, “That’s right. And I’m not joking. I'd better not find you at home moping in self-pity and isolation when I get in tonight.”

I sigh. “Thanks, love. I don’t deserve you.”

“Nor I you. See you tonight, babe. Bye.”

“Love you. Bye.”

**************

I have absolutely no idea what Terrence is up to when I hang up the phone with him, but I’m pretty sure he’s pulled another one of his military tricks on me and wants to hang me out to dry as he did in our college wrestling championship nearly a decade ago.

Why on earth would he pick the most public of restaurants in the heart of downtown to go eat? Didn’t he realize that half of this town already knows me by name—and not for anything good?

But lo and behold, here I am pulling up to Merrill Daisy’s Fifties Style Diner in a floral Hawaiian t-shirt, khaki shorts, and sunglasses so dark you’d think I had jaundice or something. I climb out of the driver’s seat of my 2012 Camry and step onto the cracked asphalt parking lot. I run my hands through my auburn hair and check my phone to see if Terrence texted that he was here already. Sure enough, he had. Six minutes ago.

Terrence @ 3:01 pm: Where are you, Jepson? Should’ve been here at 1500 hours sharp. Jk. I’m standing outside in front of the right entrance. See you soon.

A smile crests my lips as I read his text. “Once a Marine, always a Marine,” I mutter, strutting toward the entrance. Sure enough, there was Terrence’s muscular form standing there with his typical army green tee and camo shorts, Ray-Ban sunglasses, and bald head.

“What’s rolling with you, Jepson?” he says as he embraces me in a big bro-hug that makes it feel like he’s crushing my bones all over again.

“You know you better stop this bro-hug stuff or you’re gonna wind up crushing me as you did in college.”

“I did it once, and I’ll do it again.”

“I’m calling a bluff, Private Eddy,” I retort.

“Private? You'd better make that sergeant,”

“You’re gonna get yourself in trouble right here in front of this diner, sergeant.”

At this, he releases me, and we make our way inside the diner.

As we near the counter to order, my limbs go limp, and my palms become sweaty. I feel my heart rate begin to kick up as I study the man getting up from a window booth about fifty yards from where Terrence and I are standing. He’s wearing a corduroy blue sport jacket and designer denim jeans. I can’t see his face yet, but his lean build and slick professional hairstyle send a chill through my spine. I’ve gotta get out of here, I tell myself.

Terrence must’ve sensed my impending worry when he looked back at me for me to order.

“Jepson, you good?”

“Don’t say my last name!” I whisper, not as quietly as I want to.

As Terrence turns back towards the counter for brevity, I can feel the eyes of the man in the corduroy sportscoat lock onto me. I lower my eyes and push my sunglasses further up on the bridge of my nose.

I overhear Terrence ordering a classic BLT with fries and a root beer float for me. Thank God for lifelong friends who know your preferences, especially in distress.

Terrence walks back toward me now and shields me with his form momentarily from the shrewd gaze of my unwanted observer.

“What’s wrong with you? You look as pale as a ghost.”

“I think it’s my bo…my ex-boss and his executive assistant who are getting up from that booth over there. He’s looking at me—my boss.”

A wave of understanding flashed over Terrence’s features, and I could see a plan working in his brain.

“What’s his name?”

“What?”

“I asked you, ‘What’s his name?’”

My eyebrows go up in confusion, but I whisper his name to Terrence, not sure—once again—what Terrence is up to.

“Okay, let’s go.”

Terrence moves in front of me and starts to walk toward the door we came in, but then he makes a sharp turn to the left and B-lines toward the side of the diner where my ex-boss is. I don’t even have time to utter a panicked “What the heck are you doing?” before he’s right in front of my boss.

“Sir, may I speak with you for a moment?” starts Terrence, as my ex-boss turns to face him, a startled and quizzical look on his face.

“And you are?”

“Terrence Eddy.” Terrence backs out of the way and motions to me. My eyes are already lowered, and I’m pretty sure Terrence doesn’t even have to say my name again for my ex-boss to know that I’m guilty as charged: the failed and recently fired chief broadcast meteorologist at WHCS Channel 4 News—Brett Jepson.

“This is my good friend, Brett Jepson. Brett, why don’t you get acquainted with this fine gentleman?”

Almost bewildered out of my mind, I will myself to lift the weights out of my eyes and make eye contact with Jeff Witherington.

“Good…good…evening, Jeff.”

I quickly pull my head down again and stand there, probably looking as pitiful as a wounded puppy dog.

Momentarily, I feel Terrence’s glare settle upon me. I look up again and see Jeff’s extended hand left hanging in between us.

“Oh…sorry, sir…Jeff,” I mutter, as I return his handshake.

A look I can’t quite describe comes across Jeff’s face as he studies me for a moment. A short sigh emerges from his lips.

“I’m sorry things couldn’t work out, Brett. I really am.”

“Yeah,” was all I could muster as Jeff and his assistant turned back toward the exit. I still am trying to comprehend the fact that he had extended his hand to me. And was that a note of genuine compassion I heard in his voice?

Meanwhile, Terrence is already seated at the window booth behind where Jeff and his assistant were previously sitting. Was he crazy? How could he expect me to eat after that traumatic encounter, even if it did go better than I expected?

“What…what kind of effect do you have on people? Is it the Marines, your physique—what is it?” I ask Terrence as he begins munching on his fries as if the past two minutes had been perfectly normal.

“Nope. No effect. But I did learn it in the Marines.”

“Learn what? How to embarrass your friend and open raw wounds right in the middle of public places?”

“Why are you so rattled, Jepson? What was the worst thing that could’ve happened?”

“Oh, don’t start with that optimism and best-case scenario crap. I get enough of that from Rissa. And you still haven’t answered my question. You said you ‘learned it’ in the Marines. Learned what?”

Terrence took a bite of his cheeseburger before answering me.

“Well, first answer my question. What was the worst thing that could’ve happened?”

“Ugh. I don’t know. He probably would’ve dissed me or ignored me.”

“And what did he do instead?”

“He shook my hand and said he was sorry he had to let me go.”

“Exactly.”

“Exactly what?” I asked, my cheeks flushing and my pulse quickening as whatever mind game he was playing on me was starting to get under my skin.

“Jepson, being a sergeant didn’t fix everything for me like I thought it would. I’ve had many times I’ve had to do what you just did.”

I am speechless for several moments. Was Terrence trying to say that reputation wasn't everything? That maybe my failure as a meteorologist didn't mean I was unworthy of respect, of basic human decency, of a handshake?

“I think I get what you’re saying, but I don’t know if I can just be okay giving up everything I’ve worked to build.”

“I know you won’t be okay with it. I had many long, lonely nights on deployment to think about it. You’ll likely need some time yourself. But in the meantime, you better not let that BLT and fries I ordered for you go to waste and get cold on me.”

“Yes, sergeant,” I say, making a teasing salute motion with my free hand.

“At ease, Jepson,” Terrence says, grabbing another fry from his carton.