Date: Tue, 17 May 2016 22:24:41 -0500
From: Eric Trager <trager2275@gmail.com>
Subject: It Is What It Is: Chapter 1

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Email feedback can be sent to trager2275@gmail.com. © 2015 by Eric
Trager.



CHAPTER ONE

 "God damn it!"

The blaring alarm clock takes the brunt of the foregoing exclamation and a
pretty good swat on the snooze button as 6:30 a.m. is really not a proper
hour to wake up a 17-year-old on Summer vacation.

Never mind, he reasons - it's the hour he picked and it is what it is –
time to get his ass out of bed and go for the standard morning run to keep
in shape for the upcoming Football season.

Pre-season practice starts in late August, which is only a three-and-a half
weeks away, anyhow, right?

Sean Branson Wyman – he always thought his middle name a little odd
although it had been his mother's maiden name - peals the covers back and
swings his legs out of bed, with the rest of his half-sleepy body
reluctantly following.

Sean's pretty sure Dad's gone to work already and he's used to doing
mornings alone.

A couple of stretches to sweep out the cobwebs, a good piss, and he's ready
to go - pulling on a jock strap, running shorts, a loose, white wife-beater
and his running shoes.

A quick look in the mirror is not dissatisfying to Sean – according to
his last year's athletic physical, he stands six feet even, and with almost
shoulder-length golden blonde hair is a supple, yet fit 180lbs.

Sapphire eyes accent his almost impossibly high cheekbones, and are set
aside a perfectly proportioned straight nose following into a square jaw
and a mouth that, more easily than Sean likes, goes into a default toothy,
impish grin that along with his mischievous eyes is often mistaken for a
smirk if you don't know him.

He admires his hairy, muscular legs, and the manly chest hair that moves
down to a darker, thicker treasure trail. Smooth Sean is not – and he
likes that.

Sean knows he's got to keep in good shape over the Summer – next year
will be his Junior year at Tremper Senior High and he's got a lot on his
shoulders.

Tremper is a huge school with almost 2,500 students, but out of all of them
last year in October Sean was - in his mind anyway, for better or worse -
thrust into the limelight when the Football team's starting quarterback,
Senior Steve Gimmel, was badly injured in the third quarter of the game
against crosstown arch-rival Bradford High.

As backup quarterback – although only a Sophomore – it was on Sean,
as Gimmel's back-up, to take over the team's offense.

The Head Coach, a crusty, corrugated old guy by the name of Irv Anderson
who Sean thought must be older than dirt told Sean gruffly, "Wyman, it is
what it is. It's up to you now – we got three games left and it's on
you, kid. Time to grow up and act like a man."

Sean guided the Trojans to victory that night. The score was in Tremper's
favor 24- 21 when Sean took over and they won the game 38-28. He threw for
one touchdown and ran another one in from the 4-yard line.

In his first huddle as quarterback, Sean carefully studied the circle of
his older teammates looked each of them in the eye and simply asked of
them, "Believe in me!"

After the game Sean was pleased when his teammates slapped him on the back,
fist- bumped, chanting "We believe in you!" and when Coach Johnson came up,
shook his hand and said, "Holy crap! You were as cool as an ice cube out
there, Wyman!"

For the remaining games, Coach Anderson modified the offensive plays a
little bit to compensate for Sean's relative inexperience, but Sean had an
arm, good field smarts – and what's more, Sean was totally
unflappable. Sean acquitted himself well in the remaining three games of
the season – what was he supposed to do, fuck it up?

The Tremper Trojans varsity football team ended up winning two of their
last three games and with that the conference championship. The game that
was lost was a non-conference game against another Division I school,
Janesville Craig, and that game Tremper only lost 21-17 playing away in
Janesville instead of at home.

Going into his Junior year, Sean was pretty sure that it would be on him
again to be the starting quarterback. He knew as well as anyone else that
in High School coaches a lot of the time play favorites, he was the
favorite, and there didn't look to be any real competition for the job on
the horizon. He reasoned that competition would probably have to come from
a Senior or another Junior, but there didn't appear to be any Seniors, or
Juniors looking for the job, or cut out for it. He pretty much dismissed
the possibility of a challenge from a Sophomore as none of the guys who
would be Sophomores in the coming year had the combination of size, talent
and experience that Coach would look for.

Sean didn't mind his football situation – he pretty much had it made.

Sometimes, though, he did mind other things in life. Dad was on him abut
his grades which although standing a solid 3.900, and with all the AP
classes to boot, were right on the edge of what he needed to get him into
the University of Wisconsin-Madison where his Dad went and was one of the
top schools in the country – a "Public Ivy."

And Sean knew his Junior year would be his toughest one academically, too,
having got past the Sophomore classes, Junior year is when the course-work
gets more advanced - not easier – and by the time you're a Senior it's
too late – you already have to apply to college.

Dad was determined that Sean would go to Madison, and what's more go to the
School of Business. It was just one of those things that Dad's do Sean
thought to himself, but at the same time told himself, "I'll cross that
bridge when I come to it."

At the same time, Sean felt something else tugging at his brain: "Can't I
just be myself?" Sean thinks. "Can't I just do what I need to do? I know
there's a lot more to do after High School determining the rest of my life,
not being the starting Quarterback, not being popular – I never sought
popularity. Can't I just be ME?  School of Business: maybe, maybe
not. Can't I figure this out on my own?"

Sean knew that for the time being the answer was "no" and he did what he
always did being the low-maintenance guy he was: he took mental inventory
of the situation, weighed up what was most likely versus what was unlikely
to happen and simply got on with the job.

In life Sean was exactly the same as he was on the football field: he
didn't get rattled.

Sean wasn't shy in any way, but he was a more aloof than someone in his
position might be expected to be. While friendly, Sean wasn't always the
first to start conversations with others, didn't go out of his way to be
loud, or brash at parties, didn't chase girls, didn't drink until he passed
out, or puked, wasn't really part of any certain clique, and he was content
with that. More than once, he'd been told or overheard others saying that
he was a mellow guy.

Sean's motto was, "You can observe a lot just by watching."

His one vice was that he'd sometimes hang with the school stoners – or
at least the stoners who had jobs, or good grades and weren't total losers
- in getting high.

For Sean, that was more of a release than anything else, and truthfully,
Sean enjoyed variation in company and time away from his jock friends was
fine with him – it gave him a different window on the world.

After stretching on the front lawn, Sean was now off for his standard
morning run which took him through the tree-dappled morning sunlight of his
upper middle- class neighborhood and then he turned east toward Lake
Michigan where his route took him past the sand beaches, the white caps and
the gulls – the scenery made the drudgery of the run effortless.

Two miles down, then two miles back and a mile each way to and from the
Lake made for a good workout.

"Hey WYMO!!!" pierces Sean's ears as he nears the turn-around point of his
route.

"Fuck!" thinks Sean, "I know who that is – it's that fucktard Braden,
the dumb fuck!  Christ, out of all the people I didn't want to run into
this morning!"

Sure enough, Mark Braden's car pulls up and stops. "Hey, Brade!" says Sean,
"What's up?"

Mark Braden was the Center on the Football team, a Senior in the coming
year and was just the kind of person to set Sean's teeth on edge. Big at
about 6'3", a little tubby, pimply face, not attractive, loud, boorish and
in Sean's opinion downright stupid – with pasty light brown hair that
appeared to be stuck to his head with body oil. Braden was what Sean termed
"fugly."

Braden was also a bit of a bully. Sean in his uncomplicated way simply
categorized Braden as "an asshole" and had absolutely as little to do with
him as was possible.

"Not much" says Braden. "Hey, didn't see you over at the party last
night. Couple o' those fags from school showed up. I ran `em off,
though. Damn near gave one o' them fuckers a swirly!"

"You're a fuckin' class act, Brade, I tell ya!" Sean said with an eyeroll
while running in place and with his trademark smirk, which Braden mistook
as a friendly gesture.

 All the while Sean was thinking, "What a cunt!"

Sean knew he couldn't afford to make an enemy of Braden, though, as he
needed him at the Center position this year. For all his repulsiveness,
Braden at least was an excellent Center.

"OK, well, see ya, Brade – I gotta keep movin' here and you're blocking
traffic! Have a good one!"

"See ya, Wymo!" and with that, Braden grinned, rolled up the window and
sped off.

"Douche bag!" Sean spat with another eyeroll.

He hadn't bothered to tell Braden that instead of going to the party he
hung at Andy Churchill's place that night.

Andy was the school pot dealer and despite what connotation that brought,
Andy was a stand-up guy, and in fact one of the nicest guys around. Sean
and Andy had been friends since Kindergarten, and although traveling
sometimes in somewhat different circles during their late teenage years,
their friendship had endured as it always had been. Both were only
children, although Andy ended up with two younger stepbrothers when his mom
remarried after his dad died. Sean and Andy, at least subconsciously,
regarded each other as the brother they never had.

Churchill was one of those guys that Braden and some of his buds sometimes
taunted by exaggeratedly whispering "faaaaag" whenever they saw him around
at school and especially in the gym locker room.

That bothered Sean, who – in his ever clear-headed way - simply thought
such inane behavior was uncalled for.

For Andy's part, he knew that the Braden gang ended up buying his weed
anyway through a third party, and what they didn't know didn't hurt
`em. Besides, money is color-blind: it's always green.

Andy made sure he got his fair profit margin out of it, too, and never said
a word – he was the kind of guy who in his low-key, un-flashy way would
have the last laugh and you'd never know it.

Sean wondered what would make the idiot Braden use the "faaaaag" taunt
against Andy anyway – Andy was about 5"10" and 160lbs, with a lean,
swimmer's build, dark ash blonde hair and brown eyes.

Anyone who knew Andy knew that he was probably going to end up being a
builder and there was absolutely nothing feminine about him.

True, Andy Churchill never had a girlfriend, and didn't chase girls, but he
didn't chase guys, either, and there was nothing saying he was gay.

Sean turned down the main road that took him back to his street and just
then realized that he had forgotten his cell phone when he started
out. "Oh, well, who was I gonna call anyway?" he thought as he ran up the
driveway toward the front of the pretty, cedar-shingled Tudor-style home
that he and his Dad called home.

Sean's mother died fairly suddenly four years ago of ovarian cancer –
six months from diagnosis to her death – at the age of 41, and while
Sean cherished her memory, the veil of time allowed Sean enough healing so
that he was at least able to accept that we're all born with a number and
when it's up, it's up.

The Doctors had done everything they could, but in the end, it was what it
was.

Every so often, Sean would visit the cemetery, finding his mother's
headstone which read, "Valerie Wyman, Beloved Wife and Mother, 1968-2009"
just to lay some flowers there and to let her know what was going on in his
life.

That was all he could do.

And more often than not, when Sean was done filling his mom in on the
latest happenings in his life, a single teardrop would grace his cheek.

It still hurt some.

To all who knew her, Val Wyman was exceptional. She was truly elegant: her
blonde hair was always flawlessly done, she dressed as sharp as if she was
about to meet the Queen of England even if she was vacuuming the house, her
dinner parties were renowned, she loved to travel and entertain, a sparking
conversationalist with diamond-like eyes, a million-dollar smile, and she
never had a bad word to say, at least publicly, about anyone, and nothing –
nothing – ever got under her skin.

On her deathbed she privately told her then-13-year-old Sean, "I gave you
half of me on the day you were born. You are my son – when I am gone I
will always be your guardian angel. I am your mother and mothers know
everything, don't you forget that. You are a good son, Sean, and I am proud
of you in every way."

She clasped his 13-year-old hand and went on, "Don't worry about me,
sweetheart – you just take care of yourself and of Dad – and don't
despair, for you have my strength and steadiness. It is what it is, and
when it is your time I shall see you in Heaven. This isn't good-bye, this
is just `I'll see you on the other side.' You be true to yourself, my
boy. I love you."

If Sean inherited his personality from anyone, it was from his mother,
Val. At her funeral, Sean's dad summed it up: "Val knew with equal ease how
to win, and how to please."

Sean walked twice around their large home in order to cool down from his
run and to not let his muscles suddenly stop working – often if he
didn't do that he'd get painful cramps in his calf muscles and thighs.

Walking into the house, he spied his cell phone on the breakfast counter
where he'd forgotten it.

An alert on the screen told him he had a text message.

It was from his Dad, and read, "ub home 6pm 2day we need 2 talk."

"KK" Sean texted back.

END CHAPTER ONE.