SHORT STORY: The Ballad of Speed Moore

Writer’s note: This has only been lightly edited. I will go back over time and clean it up and change this and that. I wrote this in one sitting. It’s a story that has been on my mind for a while. It’s 6,400 words.

Atlanta traffic was having a heart attack.

A wreck on the Connector had turned both I-85 and I-75 South into a gigantic and pissed-off parking lot. Which was normal. Traffic was the great equalizer in the Atlanta Metro Area. It didn’t matter who you were — rich, poor, famous or infamous, you were going to suffer equally. Speed Moore thought about the irony of his name at the moment. The fastest man on Atlanta television was also sitting still. His Mercedes convertible sat idling next to a Honda minivan. A kid in its backseat made faces at him. Speed, being a big child himself, made faces back. The kid laughed and went back to looking at his phone. A helicopter flew overhead. Above him his friend Captain Traffic (obviously not his real name) announced the obvious:

“It’s not good folks. There’s an egg truck overturned right in the middle of the interstate. Not sure why it was driving in town and not on 285, but guess what folks, his driving’s not all its cracked up to be.”

Speed could almost hear everyone collectively groan. He also felt his anxiety rise. He had a meeting at the TV station in 30 minutes and was going to be late. Speed Moore was NEVER late. Surely the cops wouldn’t ticket him if he zipped over into the emergency lane. Atlanta’s most popular TV sports anchor missing an editorial meeting was definitely an emergency.

“I bet Guy Sharpe did this all the time,”Speed thought.  Guy Sharpe was a legendary Atlanta weatherman when Speed was a kid.

He put on his blinker and nosed the sports car over .  The driver of a minivan, an attractive brunette who was probably 30, bored with her life and her husband and would love to meet Speed (Speed’s inner dialogue revealed his true nature), looked down at Speed and then up at a Billboard near Georgia Tech’s campus.

“MOORE THAN THE SCORE” Catch Speed Moore at 6 and 11 only on WDRS.

She immediately recognized Speed and furiously waved as she allowed him to pull in front of her. Speed waved back and grinned. There were perks when you were famous after all.

Speed Moore had graduated with a broadcasting degree from the University of Georgia in 1981. Part of the National Championship Football team, Speed started his career winning and hadn’t slowed down. He was hired as an intern at WDRS and then went to a small station in Augusta, Georgia. He quickly rose through the ranks and came back to WDRS two years later. First he became a sports reporter. Then a weekend anchor. In 2000, he was named the main sports reporter for WDRS. Speed had a gift when the “On air” light turned on in the studio. Funny, handsome, charismatic, he had a way of finding out-of-the-way stories and bringing them to life. He also had a way of charming his the ladies — including his female coworkers. (Speed wouldn’t have survived the #METOO era without a few scars.)

He was married the lovely Anna Jane Brimsky, who was a Georgia cheerleader his senior season. They married immediately out of college and had two teenage boys. All three had Speed’s looks, athleticism and charisma. And all three disliked him about as much as their mother did. Speed wasn’t a bad person per se. He was just never there. Even when he was at home, he was glued to a screen checking the latest score or running his social media empire. Speed Moore was a father but not much of a dad. He loved his boys — he just really didn’t know how.

He pulled into the emergency lane and turned on this flashers. Like the flashers would help, but it seemed like the thing to do to avoid a ticket. The exit to the studio was up ahead. “Out of my way,” Speed howled and then laughed.

Being a celebrity was the coolest thing ever. It was the first dumb thing he did that day.

Speed pulled his car into the station lot and into the space with his name on it (a gift from his last contract negotiation.) He threw the car into park and prepared to leap out. But a quick glance in the mirror revealed something he had not noticed before — a few gray hairs. Gray hairs were death in television. Age was death in television. The internet (and now Facebook Live) had thrown the media business into a tailwind. Atlanta, one of the biggest TV markets used to be a place where you had to scratch and claw your way up the media ladder to get a job. Speed had noticed the new hires were younger and younger. They were coming in straight from college. Granted, they were damn good at what they did. But they made Speed feel even older than he was. Add to it, his salary was huge compared to many of the people at the station. With advertising revenues in a nosedive, Speed hadn’t noticed the giant bullseye on his back. Jealousy prevented anyone else in the building from telling him. Well, jealously and just thinking Speed was a conceited prick.

“Have no fear, Speed is here!” he bellowed as he walked into the afternoon meeting.

“About time you got here.” The station manager said tersely. A balding man in his late 50’s with a permanent scowl, Tate McDaniel didn’t normally didn’t come to this meeting. Speed noticed he was sitting at the end of the table with his arms crossed.

“When we’re done, Speed, I need to talk to you,” McDaniel growled. Most people would have felt their stomach drop at his words. Speed, wrapped comfortably in the blanket of his oversized ego, didn’t even think a thing about it. It was the second dumb thing he did that  day.

After the meeting, Speed and the General Manager sat down in the GM’s office. “So, what’s up?”

“Your time at the station,” McDaniel said coldly.

“Pardon me?” Speed said incredulously. “Did you just say what I think you said?”

“Yes. The consultants think you are past your prime. That millennials don’t relate to you. That even the older audience doesn’t care anymore. The consultants thinks we shouldn’t renew your contract.”

Consultants, who were just a whisker above leeches in Speed’s mind, came in and tore up your performance and offered non-constructive criticism.  Speed knew this was more about money than it was about his performance. He was the #1 sports anchor in town after all.

“As of when?”

The station manager shrugged and looked at him. “Tonight. Sorry for the short notice. I wanted you gone immediately, but corporate thought you at least deserved a chance to announce your retirement.” Many times in television, people would disappear just like it was the Rapture.  Speed would go on the air and say some bullshit about how he was going to spend more time with his family. How many coaches had he covered who vomited that line? Too many.

Speed, stunned beyond words, felt rage boil up inside of him. He wanted to pick up the phone and beat the GM to a pulp. But he just sat there. He felt like the scared little boy he had been so many years ago.

Speed Moore, actually Rick Moore, had grown up in a suburb of Atlanta. He was an only child to a father who was never there and a mother who was a narcissistic and suffered from undiagnosed mental problems. In her eyes, little Ricky existed to make her feel better, just like the alcohol and pills did. Ricky never knew which version of his mother he’d encounter. One minute, she was nice. The next, she was screaming and throwing things. A little boy should never be anything more than a little boy. Instead, Ricky felt like he had to be a peacemaker — he just wanted his mother to stop yelling. It scared the heck out of him — one minute she’d throw things and then next she’d threaten to leave. He could not fight or flight. He had no control. That caused him to begin to blame himself for his mother’s mercurial personality. That caused his mother passed the torch of dysfunction on to her son. A deep hole was burned into his soul. When he was in high school, sports and the fact that he was a class clown helped build a facade to hide his pain. Speed Moore was born.

That facade began to crumble in the office that day. Speed Moore turned back into frightened little Ricky Moore.

He would get his revenge.

It was the third dumb thing he’d do that day.

*****

The 6 P.M. newscast was WDRS’ highest rated newscast and the one Speed decided to drop the bomb on. As his sports segment wrapped up, the teleprompter said, “AD LIB SPEED.” This was the spot where Speed was supposed to humbly announce his retirement and say farewell to his viewers. What happened next made Speed a YouTube Legend.

“Tonight, I’d like to make an announcement. Ted and Linda, my coanchors for the past for ten years are sleeping with each other. They are married — just not to each other.  I mean serious guys, I can hear you in my office. Linda, you are just loud. Bob, the weatherman, is absolutely dumb as a sack of hammers. If a tornado were headed to my house, I’d tune into WSB. There isn’t much there under his fake hair. I’d tell our station manager Tate McDaniel to go screw himself but I’m not sure he smart enough to do that. But he is smart enough to screw me over. I am being let go. Right now  I am being fired. Canned. Screwed. It’s not my decision. I repeat, it’s not my decision. And it’s not because of my performance. My ratings are good. Heck they are great. No, it’s all about money. The media business is dying from a self-inflicted wound. People like me, who come into your homes every night, are being let go at an alarming rate. Instead, replacements with little knowledge of the markets they work in are replacing us for half the salary. This is all while corporate hacks get huge bonuses. Imagine a plane crashing and the pilots giving themselves bonuses. It’s not fake news, folks. There is no agenda other than greed…”

Speed saw Tate running to the control room as the producers scrambled to cut the feed. The news went straight to a commercial. Ted’s face was bright red and Linda was crying. Bob the weatherman started to run over to slug Speed, but when Speed stood up, Bob realized that he was twice his size. He backed off but yelled, “You bastard. I always hated you!  The station’s security guard came in and said, “C’mon Einstein. Let’s go.”

Tate McDaniel yelled across the studio,, “You’ll never work in television again, you son of a bitch!”

It was the first thing he had ever said that was right.

And it was Speed’s final and most costly mistake of the night.

*****

The guard shoved Speed out the back door. The warm, humid Atlanta air wrapped around him like a wet, wool blanket. The skyscrapers looked like giant teeth. But Speed felt cold. What the Hell had he just done?

His iPhone buzzed. He looked down to read the text:

“I’m done. Don’t even bother coming home. The boys, the dog and I will be gone. You are mentally insane. You’ll be hearing from my lawyer. Don’t respond, there is nothing you can say.”

Speed saw his dead mother standing next to his Mercedes laughing. The little scared boy realized he had screwed up royally.

*****

Time: Two years later. Where: Destin, Florida. What: A quick recap of Speed’s life.

Anna Jane wasn’t kidding. Her lawyers, armed with the a recording of Speed’s meltdown, managed to clean him out. She also got full custody of the boys, who didn’t want to talk to their dad anyway. Speed, who now went by Rick, got to keep his car and a small savings account that had been his inheritance from his parent’s estate. The boys were now 18 and 20, so he he no longer had to pay child support. Anna Jane had remarried — to Rick’s best friend Van. Rick had seen the them in a restaurant in Destin six months ago, but since he was busing tables, he didn’t go over to say hello. This was what his life had come to: He used the Mercedes money to buy an old boat that barely floated and didn’t have a working engine. He showered at the public beach shower. He worked on a Parasail boat during the day. He bused tables at Salty Sid’s Seafood Shack on the beach at night. As he went to sleep each night, he’d hear his mother’s laughter and had to drink it quiet. He had grown a bushy gray beard that would do a millennial proud — it looked like a thick patch of Spanish Moss hanging from his face. Occasionally someone would recognize him in the restaurant and yell, “Hey, there’s the YouTube dude. Didn’t you used to be Speed Moore?” Then they’d start laughing.

Rick had a God-shaped hole in his soul and was trying to fill it by self-medicating anyway he could.

*****

The sun cracked the horizon over the Eastern Gulf, shooting pink rays into the sky. Gulls playfully darted around the sky and brown pelicans dove headfirst into the aqua-blue water surrounding the boat docks. Rick shook off the fog of the night’s drinking and prepared to get ready for another day of work on the Parasail boat. He was smart enough to never drink enough to be drunk the next day — he didn’t want to lose a couple from Ohio because of his negligence. (There was enough suffering already because of his childishness.) He brewed a pot of coffee and ate his breakfast of two ibuprofen. Boat motors began to hum as the early charter boats took their cargo of doctors and lawyers out to fish for the day. It was another day in Rick’s personal Hell that was cleverly disguised as paradise. Then a voice broke the calm.

“What a piece of junk.”

Rick climbed out of the cabin to see who the offending voice belonged to.

An old man holding a couple of fishing rods and a cooler was looking at Rick’s boat.

“Excuse me?” Rick said incredulously.

“How does that thing float?”

Rick rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and asked, “Are you always an asshole or are you just one right now?”

The old man laughed. “My name’s Rogelio. Glad to meet you. Your name is Rick I hear.”

Rick wasn’t so sure he was glad to meet Rogelio. “Um, yeah. Hi. What can I do to help you?”

“The better question is this, ‘what can I do to help you?”

“Nothing, Rogelio. But thanks. Can I offer you a cup of coffee?”

“Sure,” Rogelio. He climbed aboard the boat and took a cup. “Let me ask you another question, ‘what are you afraid of?'”

Rick stared at the old man. “I think that would be none of your business.”

Rogelio smiled. “Everyone’s happiness is my business. Thank you for the coffee. I’ll be seeing you around.”

*****

Later that week, Rick’s parasail boat pulled back into the harbor. A storm had popped up in the Gulf, causing him and his captain to call it an early day. “No sense of recreating the Ben Franklin electricity experiment with a couple on their honeymoon,” he thought. As the boat cut through the chop into the safety of the harbor, he noticed Rogelio sitting on the breakwater fishing. “Doesn’t that damn fool know that he’s about to get swept into the sea?” Rogelio noticed Rick’s boat and waved energetically. What was it about that old man that seemed so familiar? Well it didn’t matter — he was about to get swept out to sea during a storm. As the boat unloaded its passengers, Rick smiled at the thought of the extra hours to take a nap before he had to head to Salty Sid’s. Busing tables wasn’t quite as glamorous as being Atlanta’s top sportscaster. But it paid the bills.

Salty Sid’s was hopping. Home of the all-you-can-eat shrimp, Salty Sid’s was founded in 1970 by Sid Finn, a World War 2 Marine who was trying to run from his PTSD. Sid was a legend in these parts who foresaw Destin becoming the crown jewel on the Redneck Riviera. He and his wife Merle had bought up hundreds of acres of scrubby land. Sid, who was 94 and spry as ever, had taken a liking to Rick. He knew who he had been in his former life but never brought it up. He also knew that Rick had some serious demons to work through. Sure, he had not been on Okinawa, but they were demons just the same.

“How’s it going young man?” Salty Sid looked up from his desk. The man was worth easily $200 million dollars but still came to work every day. Rick had heard him say a thousand times, “Work is a blessing son. Treat it like that.”

Rick shrugged. “Storm cut my day short. Lost a little money but I appreciated the nap.”

Salty Sid smiled, causing all his sun-worn wrinkles to mash together like a dried-out prune. “It’s God’s way to tell you to slow down and breathe.”

Rick laughed. The old man probably was right. But one of the curses of growing up in his household as a child was that he was in perpetual fight-or-flight mode. When Rogelio had asked him what he was afraid of, that was it. He was afraid of not being good enough. Of course, having a melt-down on TV pretty much proved he wasn’t. But rest did not come easily to him. He always felt like he had too much to do even though he didn’t.

“Hey Sid, do you know an old guy named Rogelio? He showed up the other day and insulted my boat.”

“Rick, your boat is a piece of #$%.”

Rick laughed. The truth, as much as it kind of hurt was still the truth.

Sid continued, “I’ve seen him around. He is one of the most Zen bastards I’ve ever met. Ten minutes talking to him, you’ll feel a strange sense of peace.”

“What’s his story?” Rick asked.

“He was in the Vietnam War. I’ve seen his patches on his vest. Unlike me, he didn’t get to come back a hero. He saw the same sh*t I did but had to eat his pain. Come to think of it, so did I. War is hell, son. Peace is, too. But trauma is trauma. The brain is a funny thing. I thank God for Merle. She learned a long time ago not to wake me up. I tried to choke her once when she did that.”

Rick loved Salty Sid. He was like a dad to him — the dad he really never had.

Salty Sid looked at Rick, “How are you doing?”

Rick shrugged his shoulders. “I’m a loser. This is all my fault.”

Salty Sid, “This isn’t all that bad, Rick. It’s all how you frame it.”

*****

Rick tugged on his beard as he thought about what Sid said. He knew that he was right. But he couldn’t get there. He heard his mother’s laughter instead.

“Good morning sunshine!”

Rick heard Rogelio’s voice calling from the dock.

“Rogelio. What do you want?”

“For you to find peace. Seriously, come fishing with me.”

It was Sunday and Rick had the day off from the parasailing boat. “Sure. Give me a minute to throw on some clothes and some sunscreen.”

“Smart move on both parts. You being naked would scare the fish.”

An hour later, Rogelio and Rick walked up to a charter boat. “Whose boat is this?” Rick asked.

“A friend’s. We’re going to wait on a few friends before we head out.” Rogelio got the boat ready for the trip. He put a cooler on board. “Sorry, no beer, son. None of us drink anymore. Hope that is OK with you.”

Rick wasn’t going to complain. He was getting a free charter out of the deal and could use some fish for dinner. He noticed a car parking at the dock. Three professional looking men, like Rick had once been, headed toward the boat. “Are we chartering a group of doctors Rogelio?”

“No, these guys are part of a small group that meets once a week here on the boat. And by the way, we’re all on first name basis only.”

“Is this a 12-step program?” Rick asked.

“Not exactly. Just a few friends I thought you’d like to meet.”

Rick greeted Stan, David and Jacob as they boarded the boat. “My name is Rick.” They looked at his shaggy beard as Jacob said, “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

“I bus tables at Salty Sid’s.”

“I thought so.”

Rogelio fired up the engines and cast the lines free from the doc. “Come on boys, lets go show those fish who is boss.”

The boat carved through the green water into the deep blue Gulf.

Nothing was biting, so Rogelio told them to cast their lines on the other side of the boat.

“Are you Jesus?” Rick asked. Rogelio laughed, “No. it just seemed to be doing the same thing over and over and over and expecting the different results.”

“Isn’t that the definition of insanity?” Rick scoffed.

Stan laughed, “I think we all know a little about that.”

“So tell me about yourselves.”

Stan said, “I was CEO of a Fortune 500 company. The Great Recession hit and our stock tanked. The board cut me loose with a pretty sizable golden parachute. But I became vilified for the company’s losses and turned to the bottle numb the pain. They tried to throw me in prison like they did Bernie Ebbers. I almost committed suicide. After a while, I discovered that there was something else I was trying to cover up. Rogelio helped me figure it out.”

David said, “I was a well-paid columnist for the Seattle newspaper. I got downsized and fell apart. My wife left me when I started taking drugs to numb my pain. I thought my job was who I was. Rogelio showed me that my job is just a reflection of who I am.”

Jacob chimed in, “I was a doctor who had one bad day. I sewed an instrument up into patient who later died. I was sued and lost. The hospital fired me. No one else would hire me. I had dreamed of becoming a doctor when I was eight. I bounced around for a while until Rogelio invited me fishing. So what’s your story, Rick?”

Rick, for the first time in two years, opened up about the day that changed his life. He ran down a list of whose fault it was.

Stan chimed in, “I thought you looked familiar. Dude, I loved you on TV. But you left one name off the list.”

David and Jacob added, “This is the hard part, Rick. You are right here because of what you did.”

Rick instantly got defensive. But Rogelio put his hand on his shoulder. Rick felt a warmth and calmness like he had never felt before. It was that peace that Salty Sid had mentioned.

“We’re not ganging up on you dude. We all sounded just like you did, once. But we all figured out, with Rogelio’s help, that the only way past the pain was to live in the moment. And then to own it. In fact, you have to own everything about your life. You may not be able to control what happens to you but you sure can control how you react to it.”

Rick felt really uncomfortable. How dare they say this was his fault? He would’ve jumped off the boat and swam for the shore if he could. He quietly nursed a bottle of water wishing that Rogelio could turn it into wine.  “Maybe we should try fishing. I have got dinner to catch.”

The three men laughed. “You’ll be OK. Whatever it was that wired you like you are is strong. You have to learn that it is in the past. Tell that voice in your head to shut up.”

Stan interrupted laughing, “Dammit, we sound like Dr. Phil.”

Lightning flickered off to the Southwest. Rogelio came out of the cabin and said, “Sorry to cut this short boys, but I don’t want to go Gilligan’s Island on this three-hour tour. We need to get back to port. We’ll do this next week, OK?”

*****

The three men’s words rattled around in Rick’s head as he cleaned the booths at Salty Sid’s that night. He was supposed to own this pain he felt? It was Tate McDaniel’s fault.

“Rick, can you come into my office?” Salty Sid called Rick. Rick got nervous. The last time he had heard someone say this, his life had changed drastically.

“Sure Sid’s, what’s up?”

“Just checking on you. You’ve been quiet tonight. You OK?”

Rick was humbled that someone as important as Salty Sid would even care.

“Rogelio said you went fishing with the guys today.”

“You know about that?”

“Yeah, I’ve been out with them a few times. Rogelio borrows my boat. It’s his ministry.”

•••••

“Good morning, sunshine.” Rick heard Rogelio’s singsong voice. “We have a field trip today.”

Rick noticed Rogelio’s car — a beat-up old Ford Ranger pickup. As Rick went to get in, Rogelio said, “You have to open it from the inside. That’s why I left the window down.”  Both of them sat quietly as Led Zeppelin IV blared from the truck’s speakers. “Yeah, they had issues with plagiarism but dammit they were amazing,” Rogelio said as they headed into town. The trip was relatively short as they pulled into a parking lot of a small building.

It was the public library.

“Your next homework assignment is to get a library card and use it,” Rogelio said as they entered the small tan building. “It’s time to help you understand why you are what you are. And I am not talking self-help books. You need help-self books. Here are a few biographies and one book I particularly like, “A Road Less Traveled.” It’s a bit preachy at times. But the bottom line is this, if you want to heal yourself, you have to do the work.”

*****

That night, as Rick watched the moon rise over the Gulf, he instinctively reached for the bottle. But instead, he grabbed a book instead and started reading.

*****

Salty Sid limped down the dock and got on the boat. Stan, David and Jacob gave him a fist bump as he came aboard. Rogelio came out of the cabin and said, “Welcome aboard old man.”

“You aren’t much younger than I am, you old fart.”

Rogelio looked at Rick and said, “Alright, it’s time for your book report, Rick.”

Rick went on to explain what had happened to him as a kid, how it wasn’t his fault but that it had messed with him. He said that his whole life he had created the “Speed Moore” image to get attention. He said that he wasn’t knocking what he had accomplished but that he was doing it all for the wrong reasons. He had a platform. A way to touch and move people. Instead he had touched them the wrong way and moved them away from him. He said the only way he would ever find peace would be to shut the tapes down and to live actively in the present. And to live by the golden rule. But he said, that you can’t love others as yourself if you secretly hate yourself.

Rogelio and Sid did a slow clap. “You’re getting there son. You’re getting there.”

“What do you mean that ‘I am getting there?’ When will you know when I do get there?”

“You never will get there.”

Rick threw his hands up in frustration. “Then why the hell am I doing this?”

Rogelio said, “Because you are still alive.”

The rest of the trip was more about fish than psychology. Sid caught the most. David didn’t do badly himself. As the sun began to set over the Gulf, Sid looked at his Rolex and said to Rick, “you had better get back to work son. You have tables to bus.”

*******

The boat rocked vigorously as a severe storm howled outside. A tropical depression had crashed into Destin, sending waves and a small surge into the harbor. Rick tried to read “A Man’s Search for Meaning,” by Viktor Frankl but waves of nausea turned his stomach. He got up, took a Dramamine and tried to continue reading. No dice. He put on a raincoat and walked out onto the deck. Lightning flickered across the sky, spreading its fingers dangerously close to the ground. The wind whipped salt and sand into his face. Whitecaps covered the normally tranquil harbor as Mother Nature threw a hissy fit. Rick looked out in the distance. He blinked a couple of times and saw a lone figured walking across the harbor. He blinked again, wiping his eyes as he tried to focus on it. That figure was still coming towards him. He hadn’t been drinking. In fact, he had not touched a drop since Rogelio had started inviting him on the fishing trips. The figure continued to walk across the waves. “Was it Jesus?” he thought.

Far from it. It was his mother.

His mother had died a couple of years ago. She was angry, bitter and alone. Like a drowning person, she had tried to drag Rick into the grave with her. When he was when he was a child, he had tried to save her. He had tried it again when she was sick at the end. Instead, she died with her soul not at rest.

His mother lowered her hood. Lightning illuminated her gaunt face. She looked at him and grinned. Great. Here comes the part where she laughs at my situation. Instead, he saw her mouth move, “I love you.” As the last words from her mouth came out, she faded away.

It was the last time Rick heard from her.

******

Salty Sid’s boat rocked gently off the coast. Rogelio, Sid, David, Jacob, Stan and Rick all quietly waited for something to take their bait.

“You know,” Rogelio, “fishing is a holy profession.”

Sid piped in, “And selling it fried is a hell of lucrative profession.”

All the men laughed as Rick spoke up. “So let me ask you this. If all we have is this moment, what are we supposed to do with it?”

Stan said, “Don’t #$% up.”

Rick quipped, “Too late. Seriously. How should I live my life?”

Rogelio said, “I used to watch you when you were on TV. You brought energy and joy to your job. You brought information and laughter to the people who watched you. Where you fell down was that you didn’t bring that passion into the rest of your life. Your job is to unselfishly make others’ lives better. It’s harder than you think. But I think you have some work to do. One of them is to start repairing the mess you left behind.”

Rick felt his stomach sink. He liked hiding behind his beard. He liked being Rick Moore, busboy. It was safe. His pain couldn’t get to him here. It fulfilled his broken self-prophecy.

Stan said, “We all had to do it brother. You’re not alone. You must make amends.”

Thunder rumbled in the distance. Rick felt like he was about to vomit.

*****

His beard was gone. Rogelio’s truck sat in at the end of the Atlanta McMansion’s driveway. Rick pressed the doorbell a second time. “What the hell am I doing here?” he thought as the door opened.

There stood Anna Jane, beautiful as ever. She looked like she was looking at a ghost.

“Get….” but before she could go on, Rick cut her off.

“I will leave forever in a moment. I just wanted to apologize to you. I failed you as a friend, a husband and a man. I take complete responsibility. I am sorry I was not a good father to the boys and was completely caught up in my own bullshit. I know my words will never make up for what I did, but my actions for the rest of my life will. I hope to eventually have a relationship with the boys but I don’t expect that to happen right away. So goodbye. I loved you but didn’t know how to show it. And for that, I will always have regret.

Anna Jane’s husband Van called from the house, “Is there a problem?”

Anna Jane, crying, said, “No.”

Rick hugged her and then walked to the battered truck. This scene repeated all around Atlanta that day. He gave heartfelt apologies to all who had hurt that day he had made an ass of himself on television. Ted and Linda, who both had gotten divorces and married each other, accepted his apology. Bob didn’t but at least listened. And when Tate saw him, he threatened to call the Police on Rick. But Rick’s calmness and serenity made him listen instead. He could tell something had changed inside of Rick. There was a peace that didn’t exist before.

*****

Friday night at Salty Sid’s was a madhouse. Shrimp was being eaten and beer was being guzzled. Laughter and clinking dishes filled the dining room with a cacophony of joy. A full moon illuminated the beach, causing the trademark white sand to glow. Young couples held hands as they walked along the surf. Rick, still clean shaven, whistled as he cleaned the tables.

At table 100, a middle-aged woman sat with her family. She looked over at Rick and thought, “Well, he looks familiar.”

“Excuse me,” she called out to Rick as he walked past with a bucket of dirty dishes,” Don’t I know you?”

“It depends,” Rick said, “I also run a parasailing boat.”

“No, from somewhere else.” You could almost smell the smoke from the wheels turning in her head. “wait a minute…”

Rick’s stomach sank.

“You’re Speed Moore.”

Rick had an urge to run. But instead, he stiffened his spine and said, “Yes m’am, I am.”

My name is Mandy Buttross and I am a reporter for the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. I know you will probably say no, but can I do a profile on you? On what has happened to you since the meltdown?”

Every fiber in his soul screamed, “NO!!!!”

But instead his voice said, “Sure.”

*******

It wouldn’t have been any bigger of a story if Elvis had been found busing tables in Destin. Rick was open, honest and took ownership for everything he had done. He apologized to the viewers of Atlanta. He told his story about how he had gone to Destin as a broken man and how a small group of friends had helped him heal. He said he had planned to die alone on his boat but a man named Rogelio had reached out to him and cared. It was a classic story of forgiveness and redemption.

And Atlanta ate it up.

******

One evening, Salty Sid called Rick into his office.

“Rick, this man from Atlanta is here to see you. You might recognize him.

It was Tate McDaniel.

Tate looked at Rick with his arms crossed and a scowl. Then his face lit up into a smile, “I want you back Speed.”

Rick was stunned. He looked at Tate and said the only thing he could say, “No. Speed Moore is not coming back. But Rick Moore would love to come work at your station.”

******

A storm out on the Gulf had whipped up the winds and caused whitecaps to churn across the harbor. Rogelio walked up to Rick’s boat and yelled, “I hear it’s for sale.”

Rick laughed, “You want to buy it?”

“Hell no. I can use Salty Sid’s when I need a boat. Why would I need this piece of junk?”

Rick looked down at his friend, “You know I am going to miss you.”

Rogelio said, “I hear you’re buying a place down here.”

“I’m thinking about it. I need someone to take care of it. You game?”

Rogelio looked at his friend and said, “No thanks. Who do you think owns the complex that your place is in?”

Rick looked at the old man stunned. “Excuse me?”

Salty Sid and I are business partners. I’m the silent partner. He took me in when I came home from the war. He’d take me fishing every Sunday along with some of the Marines he fought with. They helped me past my PTSD. I bused tables and eventually worked my way up. Sid and I thought you might do that, too. But we understand TV is in your blood.”

“So you’re telling me you are rich?”

“Rich is a relative term. You used to make a lot of money, but you weren’t rich. I might be worth a hundred million or so. Depends on the day. But my true value is as a fisher of men. That, my friend, is your new mission. You must use your new platform to help others. I know you have it in your Rick. You are the best man I know.”

“Do Stan, Jacob and David know this?”

Rick heard laughter as the other men joined Rogelio.

“We can’t believe you are leaving us, you loser.” Jacob laughed.

Rick looked at Rogelio and said, “Sid said that you brought him peace. It sounds like it was the other way around.”

“Helping me helped him. Just like helping you helped me. You will discover that son. The more you help other people with no expectation of reward, the more you will find peace,” Rogelio answered with a grin.

Rick felt calm for the first time of his life.  He jumped down of the boat and hugged his friend.

And as he did, the wind stopped and water turned to glass.  One man’s storm was over as peace calmed the sea.