Chapter 6: Brotherhood and Burgers

I stayed with Marcus Tate at the quarry for a month. The sun rose early, and we’d sit out front with our beers, boots on the bumper of an old Chevy.

For the first half, we drank, talked, ate, and played cards together. He taught me a few tricks at poker; I taught him to appreciate breakfast at sunrise.

For the second half, I took him out—to bars for drinks, to karaoke to hear songs, to casinos to gamble, to the river for fishing. We even spent a lazy Saturday at a minor league baseball game, heckling the ump like old friends.

During this time, I learned that his killing of his father was actually an accident. He was helping his elderly father, but his strength was too great—he broke his father’s arm, and the pain killed him. So he bore the crime of patricide.

There are two kinds of people who know him. One kind curses him as ungrateful and avoids him. The other fears him for killing his own father and doesn’t dare get close. So he has no friends—not a single one. But he really wants someone to drink and talk with. This man, who looks as tough as stone and is quick to anger, is actually very lonely.

"You really want friends?"

The lake shimmered. We sat on a boat, sharing a bottle of spiced whiskey. The buzz of cicadas filled the air, and the gentle slap of water against the hull made everything feel peaceful.

"Very much." Marcus Tate drank a shot in one gulp.

"How many friends do you want?"

"The more the better, of course."

"I have lots of friends, all over the country. They’re all good friends worth having." I poured myself another shot. "As long as you do as I say, all my friends will gladly become your friends."

"Really? What do I have to do?" Marcus Tate’s eyes lit up.

"It’s simple."

I wrote a group text to my friends, inviting them to Maple Heights Grill for a free feast in three days. My thumbs tapped out a message, and within minutes, my phone was buzzing non-stop.

Three days later, Marcus Tate booked the whole restaurant. The place was packed with my broke friends, every table piled with burgers, fries, and pitchers of cheap beer. Country music blared from the jukebox, and someone started a toast to "new beginnings and old mistakes."

"Marcus, if you ever need anything, just call me!" a friend said, mouth greasy, raising a glass to Marcus Tate.

"Me too, just say the word!"

"Don’t be shy, man, just tell us!"

"Yeah, don’t be polite!"

"Who says Marcus has no friends? We’re all your friends!"

Everyone chimed in, raising their glasses. Marcus Tate’s eyes were already wet. Marcus tried to hide his tears behind a big swig, but his shoulders shook. Nobody at the table called him out—because everyone there had felt that lonely, once.

I sat beside him, smiling and patting his shoulder.

"The reason they became my friends isn’t just because I’m as broke and hungry as they are, but because we’re all straightforward and open, not caring about the world’s opinions. We live as we wish, and as long as our hearts have their own compass, that’s enough. If you care too much about others’ judgments, you’ll always be tired."

Marcus Tate nodded, lowering his head to secretly wipe his tears. He let out a shaky breath, his shoulders loosening.

I continued:

"Even if everyone in the world condemns you and calls you ungrateful, so what? As long as you know you’re not, who cares what they say? Marcus, you’re a good person. Believe that as long as your heart is right, there will always be people who appreciate you."

That day, this six-foot-four, tough guy hugged my arm and wept like a child. His sobs were loud, but nobody judged. In America, sometimes, a man just needs to let it out.

When I left the quarry, Marcus Tate gave me his iron staff.

"Come often, let’s drink together!"

"Of course!" I smiled, bumping fists with him in the breeze. It was a promise, as solid as the staff he handed over.