Campfire Tales I: Control Through Alignment

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CONTROL

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“Control is not force. Control is alignment.”

Reckon I ain’t been doin’ so hot.

The desert don’t care. Sun comes up when it wants. Wind blows when it feels like it. I’d been parked out there a couple days, maybe more. Time gets slippery when all you got is a clock blinkin’ 12:00 every time the engine turns over.

“If you feel resistance, it’s because you’re out of position.”

You’d think, after a win like what I had at Culture Shock, it’d be all green grass and high tides, but that ain’t it. I was the last man standin’. Hand raised. Lights in my eyes. Body achin’.

Didn’t feel like winnin’, though.

Felt like closin’ a door in a house that ain’t got no furniture left in it.

“Correct the position. The outcome will correct itself.”

I packed up my shit the second I got stateside. Just threw what I could in a suitcase and checked out. Told ‘em I’d had just ‘bout enough of livin’ in hotel rooms. Bought a Winnebago and parked it out on the edge of nowhere. Set a routine. Wake up. Drink water. No powder; kept myself straight. Less steroids; rationin’ what I got to stave off the side effects.

Tryna be better.

“Small adjustments create irreversible momentum.”

Found a dusty old box in one of the Winnebago’s cabinets. Figured it was manuals or old registration papers the last fella forgot to take, but it weren’t. It was a buncha old self-help cassette tapes.

“Don’t chase results.”

I ain’t chasin’ shit. But there’s this one thing that keeps comin’ back no matter how quiet I keep everything else.

Next match.

Up against Robby.

Five Star champ.

Boy, we celebrated when he won that thing…

My partner.

My friend.

My problem.

We bled together. Broke bones together. Carried gold together. Now I was ‘sposed to look him in the eyes, hear that bell ring, and pretend like I ain’t already made peace with how this is gonna end?

Tape says don’t chase results. Don’t focus on the outcome. But the outcome looks like me takin’ that title off his shoulder and I don’t know if that makes me a bad friend or just the same man I’ve always been.

An opportunist.

A thief.

A sonuvabitch.

“Structure eliminates doubt.”

So, I let the tape play. Sat there listenin’ like it was sayin’ somethin’ I’d been missin’ all this time. Hell, it beat therapy. Therapy’s for pussies. The last thing I needed was some headshrinker rootin’ ‘round in my brain.

“Doubt is noise.”

Thing is, I don’t ‘member puttin’ the tape in this mornin’.

“Remove the noise.”

Don’t remember pressin’ play. It was already goin’ when I woke up. Voice calm. Even. Same way Elaine used to talk when she was explainin’ somethin’ I didn’t have a say in.

“Half-measures create distortion.”

So, I’d been listenin’. Like there was somethin’ in between the words I was ‘sposed to catch.

“Pain is not a signal to stop. It is a signal to adjust.”

Hands been shakin’ some. Not bad. Just enough that I notice when I’m holdin’ still. Heart’s doin’ that thing. Skippin’. Catchin’. Like it ain’t quite lined up with the rest of me.

“Adjustment is progress.”

I looked at the clock.

Still blinkin’ 12:00.

“Progress is control.”

I reached up and tapped it, but it didn’t change.

“Control. Is. Everything.”

For a second, I thought I heard somethin’ outside. Somethin’ movin’. Circlin’. I stood up, walked to the window, pulled back the curtain just enough to peek out.

Nothin’ there.

Just sand. Just dark. Just the same stretch of nothin’ that’d been there the last time I checked. I let the curtain fall back into place.

“This concludes tape one of ‘Control Through Alignment’. Please turn to side two.”

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ALIGNMENT

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“Control is the elimination of resistance.”

You stare at it long enough, it starts lookin’ like it’s starin’ back at you, pops and cracks like it’s tryna say somethin’. I’d been sittin’ out there awhile, one of them fold-out chairs creakin’ ‘neath me, the Winnebago behind me while I poked at the coals with a stick.

Tape was still goin’ inside. Could hear it through the thin walls. Muffled. Steady.

“Resistance is misalignment.”

I rolled that ‘round in my head a bit. ‘Misalignment’. That’s a good word. Sounds like somethin’ you can fix. I’d been thinkin’ ‘bout that a lot lately. Fixin’ things, I mean. ‘Bout whether this was me gettin’ better or finally slippin’ the rest of the way off the edge.

‘Cause I ain’t stupid, y’know. I know what it looks like when a man starts losin’ it. That ain’t new.

What’s new is how quiet it felt.

“Correction doesn’t require force. Only precision.”

If I was losin’ my mind, shouldn’t it've felt louder? Faster? Messier? Hell, everything I’ve ever done’s been messy. Instead, everything felt like all the pieces were sittin’ where they’re ‘sposed to be, even if I don’t rightly know what picture they’re makin’ yet.

“Remove what doesn’t fit.”

There’s a lotta things in my life that ain’t fit for a long time. People. Habits. Thoughts. All just clutter. Noise.

“Noise creates distortion.”

The wind kicked up a little, pushin’ the smoke sideways, draggin it low ‘cross the ground. I watched it go. Watched the way it curled and stretched and thinned out ‘til it weren’t nothin’ anymore. I shifted in my chair, stick pressin’ down into the coals a little harder. Sparks jumped. Drifted up. Disappeared.

“Clarity is achieved through subtraction.”

I nodded once, like I’d just been told somethin’ important. Maybe I had. Maybe this is what it’s ‘sposed to feel like. Not better. Just clearer. Like all that extra shit’s finally gettin’ shaved away and what’s left is what was there all along.

I dragged the stick through the coals; slow, deliberate, breakin’ apart a piece of wood that’d blackened on the outside but hadn’t quite caught within. It split easy enough. Everything does, if you apply the right kinda pressure in the right place.

Misalignment. Attachment. Resistance. Words that sound clean when you say ‘em out loud, like they belonged in a manual or printed on the side of a box somewhere, but felt a little different when you started layin’ em over real things.

People, for instance.

“Emotional attachment creates resistance.”

Robby.

My partner. My friend. A champion.

I could still see him the night he won it, clear as anything. Lights hittin’ just right, that look on his face when it finally clicked that it was his, that he’d climbed all the way up to somethin’ that don’t come easy. Hell, weren’t his first rodeo, he’d been there before, but I reckon the second time hits different. Ain’t luck at that point. It’s affirmation.

We celebrated that one proper. Drinks flowin’, music too loud, Fred dancin’ and Anna laughin’, me slappin’ Robby on the back and grinnin’ wide and tellin’ him I was proud. Callin’ him Robby-Two-Belts. Tellin’ him he earned it. Meanin’ every word of it.

That part ain’t changed.

What’s changed is where we’re standin’ now… and that ain’t a place that’s big ‘nough for the both of us.

The fire popped louder’n it oughta. Sharp enough it pulled my eyes back to it. For a second, could’ve sworn the shadows didn’t move with it. The flame jumped, bent sideways with the wind, but the dark it cast stayed right where it was.

“Alignment requires sacrifice.”

The voice didn’t come from inside. Didn’t have that through-the-wall sound to it. It came from out there, in the desert. I didn’t turn right away. Just let my eyes stay on the fire, watchin’ the way it worked through what I’d given it, takin’ it apart piece by piece without ever rushin’ the job… and then I looked.

He was standin’ just past the edge of the light

Didn’t see him arrive.

No footsteps or shifts in the sand.

He just was.

A cowboy. Hat low. Face covered with a bandana. Long coat hangin’ straight down like the wind had decided he didn’t apply to it. There was somethin’ familiar in the way he stood, in the way he held himself like he already knew how this was gonna go and didn’t see no need to explain it. For a second, I had the thought that if I’d walked up to him, I might find my own reflection starin’ back.

I didn’t test it.

“...you been there long, hoss?” I asked.

He didn’t answer. Just stood there like the question didn’t belong anywhere near him.

“Identify the misalignment.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Been tryna do that…”

“Then remove it.”

Simple as that. No weight to it beyond what I chose to give it. No threat, no edge, no urgency. Just the next step in somethin’ I’d already started.

“...alright,” I said.

I pushed myself up outta my chair. Sand shifted under my boots when I stepped forward, the ground feelin’ just strange ‘neath my feet. Not enough to stop me. Not enough to make me second guess nothin’.

Just enough that I noticed.

I took one step toward him. Then another. He didn’t move or acknowledge me closin’ the distance; just stood there like he’d been waitin’ on it.

I stopped a few feet short of him. Close enough that I could see the way the bandana sat ‘cross his face, the way it didn’t move with his breath the way it oughta. Close enough to see that there weren’t nothin’ behind it for me to read. No expression or hint of what he was thinkin’ or if he was thinkin’ anything at all.

I thought ‘bout askin’ who he was, where he came from, why he sounded like somethin’ that’d been playin’ on a cheap tape deck inside my camper.

I didn’t, though.

Didn’t feel like the question fit.

“Alignment requires commitment.”

When he turned, he didn’t gesture for me to follow. Just started walkin’ out into the dark like it was already understood how this part was gonna go. The fire crackled behind me, heat still sittin’ on my back, Winnebago hummin’ steady like it hadn’t noticed nothin’ out of place.

I could’ve stayed. Could’ve sat back down, let the tape run, let the night pass the way it had been passin’ the last few days, quiet and contained and just strange enough that I didn’t have to make sense of it. Could’ve called someone up. Could’ve got some cocaine. Could’ve left Bambi another voicemail beggin’ for her to come home. Could’ve hollered at Robby and told him how much I loved him and how nothin’ was gonna change ‘tween us, win or lose. Could’ve done a lot of things.

Could’ve.

Didn’t.

I stepped forward. Weren’t like a choice I weighed out or argued with. Weren’t even my decision.

Just doin’ what I was meant to do.

So, I followed the cowboy out into the dark.

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EXECUTION

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Don’t know how long we walked for. Minutes. Hours. Days. Time stopped matterin’ as soon as the Winnebago and the light of the campfire disappeared behind us. The air got thick. Resistant. Like breathin’ under water.

“Remove the noise.”

The voice didn’t belong anywhere. It weren’t behind me, ahead of me, or comin’ from the cowboy, the camper, or the tape. It’d settled into the world itself, takin’ root and growin’ high.

I kept walkin’ and didn’t question it. The horizon bent wrong the further we went. It didn’t sit flat like it oughta, didn’t meet the sky in no clean line. It bowed inward, like the whole world had started to fold in on itself.

Things moved out there. Not animals or people or desert brush in the wind. Just… shapes. Somethin’ tall and narrow, standin’ on the edge of sight one moment and gone the next. Somethin’ low to the ground, draggin’ itself along. Silhouettes and shadows, ghosts and nightmares.

“Alignment requires sacrifice.”

He didn’t turn ‘round or look at me or slow down. No acknowledgement other than the path in front of him, if you could even call it that. I found myself matchin’ his pace without thinkin’ ‘bout it. Same stride, same rhythm, walkin’ that same line.

There were no stars overhead.

Out there, away from everything, the sky oughta’ve been full of ‘em, spillin’ out in every direction like pinpricks from God’s own needle. But there weren’t nothin’. Just a dull, stretched-out black; the cosmos scrubbed clean.

When we stopped, it took me a minute to figure out what we were lookin’ at. At first, I thought it was just the wind. A low roll of it out there on the edge of the dark, pushin’ sand ‘cross the ground in uneven waves.

Then it didn’t stop. It kept buildin’.

The ground started to move with it, grains liftin’ and draggin’ sideways like the whole world had decided to shift direction. The air thickened, same as before, but now it had weight to it. Texture. Sand hittin’ my skin in fine little stings.

The horizon bent worse the more I looked at it. Not natural, not right. Too tight in some places, too stretched in others, like it didn’t know what shape it was ‘sposed to take. It spun slow at first, then faster, then faster still, pullin’ sand up into itself ‘til it weren’t just wind no more; it was a wall. A churnin’, breathin’ thing, comin’ our way.

“Identify the misalignment.”

He didn’t move. Just stood there as the sandstorm engulfed us both.

I stepped forward. Didn’t rush, but didn’t drag my feet neither. Just moved the way I’d been movin’ since leavin’ the fire, steady and without question, like my body had already settled on a direction and the rest of me was just along for the ride. The wind picked up. Sand hittin’ my coat, my face, my hands. Sharp taps that started to blur together into a constant hiss. I squinted into it, tryna see through, but it didn’t work like that.

You didn’t look through it.

You looked into it.

And, boy howdy, it weren’t bein’ coy.

It showed me everything at once.

Not memories, one after another. A storm of ‘em. Every mistake, every regret, every piece of me I’d tried to bury, churnin’ together in that wall of sand like it’d been waitin’ for me to step close enough to see it proper.

The storm swallowed the world and, inside it, things started to take shape.

The ring came first. Sittin’ out in the middle of the desert like it’d been dropped from the sky. Lights burnin’ overhead, canvas hummin’ ‘neath my boots. Robby stood ‘cross from me. Not somethin’ I remembered, but like somethin’ that was waitin’ for me.

I saw it play out all at once, every part stacked on top of the next. Hands lockin’ up. Bodies slammin’. The moment where it stops bein’ sport and turns into somethin’ else, somethin’ worse.

I saw him go down. Saw myself standin’ over him. Saw that Five Star belt in my hands like it’d always belonged there, like everything we’d done together had just been a long road leadin’ to me takin’ it.

And underneath it all, his face.

And then the wind took it. Not like it faded, but like it got torn apart. Canvas shreddin’ into grains. Lights breakin’ into sparks. Robby pulled sideways, stretchin’ and scatterin’ into the storm ‘til there weren’t nothin’ left but motion.

The scene collapsed back into sand and a hallway replaced it.

Too long. Too narrow. Doors hangin’ open on either side, but they didn’t stay still. The wind pushed through ‘em, bent ‘em, stretched ‘em, turned ‘em sideways. Elaine’s voice slid through it all, calm and even, explainin’ somethin’ I couldn’t catch but understood all the same.

Didn’t matter what I said.

Didn’t matter what I wanted.

That door was already closin’.

The wind ripped it apart.

Bambi came next. Back turned, movin’ away. Talladega held tight in her arms. She weren’t walkin’, though. She was bein’ dragged. Feet slid through the sand, body pullin’ forward ‘gainst somethin’ stronger than her. The storm wrapped ‘round her, caught in her hair, her clothes, her shape startin’ to break apart at the edges.

I tried to call out, but my voice weren’t nothin’ but static. She didn’t stop or even look back. And then she was gone. Pulled into it. Same as everything else. And behind her, the rest of it rose up.

Not separate or clean, but a festering mass.

A thick, churnin’ wall of everything I’d ever done and everything I tried not to think about.

Lines of white powder.

Larry Lawson’s laughin’ face.

A punch from Jimmy, a kick from Hugo.

Vera leadin’ me to a velvet hell.

Frankie’s neck crackin’ again and again.

A needle in my arm.

Farthington chokin’ me out.

Daddy dyin’.

Don Winters’ disappointment just as I leave with my hat.

Lindsay Troy sighin’ and shakin’ her head.

Cora cryin’ with Natalie hidin’ behind her.

All of it caught in that storm, faces formin’ and tearin’ apart in the same breath, voices risin’ up and gettin’ swallowed just as quick.

And me.

Right there in the middle of it.

Standin’ tall.

Covered in it.

Like I belonged.

Like I built it.

Like I was the worst thing in the whole fuckin’ storm.

Hell, maybe I was.

I felt it ‘fore I saw it, the wind shiftin’ from somethin’ passin’ through to somethin’ focused. The sand stopped scatterin’ and started drivin’, every grain hittin’ with intent now, sharp little flakes like a billion shards of glass hittin’ me, piercin’ me, cuttin’ right through.

“Remove it.”

“Finish it.”

“Correct it.”

Voices risin’ outta that storm, outta the wind, outta the grit that filled the air and scraped my skin. The wind howled. Sand drove into me from every direction, findin’ its way into my mouth, my eyes, my lungs, fillin’ space that didn’t belong to it.

And behind me, the cowboy.

His hand, right between my shoulders.

He pushed.

Not hard.

Didn’t need to be.

The storm had already made up its mind.

My feet gave way.

Lifted off the ground.

I tried to scream.

And the storm took me.

❖❖❖

CORRECTION

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I jerked awake in my chair.

Sun was just startin’ to peek up over the horizon.

Took me a second to remember where I was. Same stretch of desert. Same fire burnin’ low, chewin’ through what was left of the wood I’d fed it. Same Winnebago sittin’ behind me without movin’ an inch.

Everything exactly where it oughta be.

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, hands hangin’ loose while I pulled in a slow breath and let it out through my nose. Chest felt tight, like somethin’ had been sittin’ on it and only just now decided to let me up.

Inside, the tape was still playin’.

Same voice. Same calm tone.

“Control is achieved when all variables are properly aligned.”

Almost laughed. Almost.

I pushed myself up outta the chair and stumbled towards the Winnebago. Inside, the air felt stale. The tape deck clicked steady, spool turnin’ slow behind that little plastic window.

“Remove the noise.”

I stood there lookin’ at it. At the tape, listenin’ to the words. Thought ‘bout the storm, whether it was real or not. ‘Bout how easy it would’ve been. How close I’d come to lettin’ it have its way. Takin’ me down. Breakin’ me apart. Smoothin’ me out. Shavin’ the edges ‘til there weren’t nothin’ left that didn’t fit nice and clean.

I reached out and hit the eject button.

The tape slid out slow like it’d already said what it needed to say and the rest was just for show. I took it in my hand, turned it over once.

I reached up and grabbed the box with the rest of the tapes outta the cabinet. All of ‘em still sittin’ there, lined up neat, waitin’ their turn.

Ain’t nothin’ patient ‘bout poison.

I stepped back outside. The sun was climbin’ now, throwin’ light ‘cross the sand in a way that made it look like the ground was fulla diamonds. The fire had burned down some, but it was still smolderin’, still takin’ what I gave it and breakin’ it apart the way fire’s meant to.

No tricks or shortcuts.

Just heat and time.

I tossed the tape in.

Watched it hit the coals and start warpin’ near instant, plastic pullin’ in on itself, ribbons inside twistin’ up.

Then I threw the whole damn box in after it. Every last one. The flames took to ‘em quick, hungry. I stood there and watched. The fire popped, sendin’ sparks up into the mornin’ air. They rose, caught the light, and disappeared.

I shook my head and sat back down in my chair, sun warm on my back, blue skies overhead, desert stretchin’ out, and my head still spinnin’ like a merry-go-round.

“Shitfire,” I muttered. “Maybe I do need therapy after all…”