When he offered to take Sandburg out, Jim had just assumed they were talking about steaks, or a
strip club, or at very worst, a movie. Something tried and true, relied on by untold generations of
male animals during the rocky process of pretending to forget your broken heart until you actually
*did* forget it.
Maybe he should've known better. Sandburg got too much mileage at home out of his
holier-than-thou dietary principles to admit that red meat might make him feel better, and he had
enough trouble sitting quietly through a movie on his good days. And Sandburg at a strip club
was a vaguely horrifying thought; Jim was just as glad he wasn't having to go through with that
one.
Still, Jim thought, as he picked up a snow globe with Polynesian dancers doing the hula in
front of Santa's workshop. Still.
*Garage sales?*
Even for Sandburg, it was weird. And speaking of-- Jim glanced around and saw his
friend kneeling in front of a fake steer's head attached to a plaque, and he just hoped it wasn't too
late to halt the bonding process.
"Chief," he said as he came to stand over Sandburg, "where exactly do you think you're
going to hang that thing?"
"Relax, Jim; I'll take it to my office."
Sentinel sight zoomed directly in on the round yellow price tag -- or maybe it wasn't
Sentinel sight, per se; he'd always noticed price tags a lot sooner than Carolyn had, long before
the senses kicked in. "Tell me you're not going to pay thirteen dollars for that thing."
"You don't have to keep calling it 'that thing,' Jim. I'm aware you don't like it."
"There are likes and dislikes, and then there are just matters of principle. You won't let
me eat prime rib, but you want to stare at Ferdinand the Bull here while you grade papers?"
"Yeah, *right.* If I buy it, it's going straight into a storage closet somewhere. Jeez, Jim --
it's pretty tacky." And with that, Sandburg bounded to his feet and flagged the woman behind the
card table and cashbox. "This is thirteen, right?"
Jim told himself that this morning was Sandburg's, and he wasn't going to question it.
Some guys went and got drunk off their asses and stuffed fifty bucks in ones in the underwear of
Nurse Natasha; Sandburg went to every garage sale in the greater Cascade area and bought false
livestock.
The grieving process was highly individual, after all.
"I'm going to sit in the car," Jim muttered, and Sandburg just nodded without looking at
him.
It took another five or ten minutes for Sandburg to make it to the car, dragging his trophy
and carrying another box under his arm. "Oh, shit, this is better!" he said as he slammed the door
behind him. "It's gotta be thirty-five out there. Why do people have garage sales in Cascade in
*October*?"
"Guess because guys like you show up and buy things." Actually, as far as Jim had
noticed, he and Sandburg had been the only *guys* at any of the sales so far. And he'd been
paying a lot more attention to their fellow bargain hunters than he had to the goods; the rebound
woman was a tactic even more tried-and-true than steaks and strippers combined, and Jim was
determined to help his friend with that one, even if Sandburg wasn't the type who would ever ask.
"So what else is in there?"
Sandburg rifled through the box. "Fashion magazines from the early '80s. Metal duck on
wheels that bobs its head as you pull it along. Silverware. Lamp that -- Jim, check out this lamp.
I wonder if Sir Richard ever realized that popularizing *1001 Arabian Nights* for an English-
speaking audience would result in stuff like this?"
"Let's hope not. I've kind of got a soft spot for the guy. So, you wanna hit another
one?"
"Naw, man, I'm freezing to death. Lunch?"
He took Sandburg to the Indian place with the buffet, and Sandburg raised his eyebrows
dramatically and said, "Wow, aren't we just feeling magnanimous today?"
"Well...." Jim didn't exactly know what to say. Did Sandburg not get that this morning
was like a -- thing? For him? "I like the rice pudding."
"So, it's not because you feel guilty."
"*Guilty?* What would I feel guilty about?"
"Um...I don't know. Setting me up to spy on Maya, maybe?"
"Hey, you showed plenty of initiative once you got a look at her. I'm sorry about what
happened, but I don't think I'm *responsible* for it."
"So you don't feel guilty."
"You think I should feel guilty?"
"I didn't say that."
"You implied it."
"No, I implied that you *might* feel guilty. There's a difference."
"I understand the difference, Sandburg, thank you. Jesus Christ, I try to be frigging
*nice* to you, and you try to make me feel guilty!"
"I'm *not*--"
"Go get your goddamn curry."
Sandburg went through the buffet line and came back with palak paneer, which Jim
refused to admit that he recognized, let alone knew the name of. What the hell was wrong with
*steak*?
As an alternative to another discussion about cardiac health, Jim said, "So what's the deal
with the garage sales? You...do this a lot?"
"Yeah, kind of." Sandburg was looking carefully down at his plate, as though maybe
*he'd* never seen palak paneer before. "Not a lot lately -- been busy." Jim knew that if he just
kept his mouth shut, Sandburg would elaborate. It was sort of what Sandburg did, and as the
seconds ticked by, Jim found himself all but holding his breath, thinking *what if it's not what
Sandburg does anymore? What if he's...broken now?*
"I had to buy a gift a couple of years ago, for a department white elephant exchange."
*Thank God,* Jim thought, but all he said was, "White elephant."
"Yeah, you know -- presents that nobody wants, like gag gifts? I drew the name of this
visiting prof that I *really,* really wanted to...."
"Impress?" Jim filled in blandly.
"Right. Absolutely. Anyway, I wanted something unique, so I figured. Garage sales."
"And the rest is history?"
Now Blair was staring so hard at his plate that Jim was forced to wonder if he'd ever seen
*spinach* before. "I have an anthropological interest."
"Oh. Well, as long as it's for science."
"I'm a major jerk, Jim. Go ahead -- just tell me I'm a major jerk, would you? Come on,
it's easy: Blair's a major jerk!"
"Blair. You're not a major jerk; you're a minor lunatic."
"I shouldn't have said that. About you feeling guilty. You shouldn't feel guilty, Jim -- I
mean, not that you do. But you shouldn't. It was my fault, all of it. And you know something?
I...don't even feel guilty. I mean, I *do.* About lying to her, about hurting her. But on the other
hand, we did the right thing. I mean, we saved lives, right?"
"That's right."
"I'm just not used to the idea that.... I mean, you expect a guy like that to be...cold.
Indifferent to human life. You don't expect him to love his kids. Though that's pretty ridiculous,
isn't it? Everybody's got somebody. Good guys, bad guys. They all love somebody, somebody
loves them." His voice cracked, and Blair threw his fork down. The clattering attracted some
attention, but Jim warded off prying eyes with his best *I'm armed, and I don't like you very
much* look. Sandburg tore raggedly at his hair and leaned his elbows on the table. "She really
loved me, Jim. That's what kills."
"Yeah." Trust Sandburg to have the urge to share in the middle of a restaurant in broad
daylight, without so much as a drop of booze in him. What kind of guy was he, anyway?
He looked straight at Jim, right through the eyes, like there was no such thing as palak
paneer in all the world, no Saturday lunch crowd, nothing but Jim. It would have been flattering,
if Jim hadn't not one hour ago seen him looking at a stuffed steer's head with that exact same
expression on his face. "She wanted to go to bed with me, Jim. She wanted *me* to be the first.
And I said no, because it was just...*so* not the right time, there was just too fucking much going
on, and I couldn't think. I just had to get out. What the fuck was I thinking, Jim, you know?
You only have so many pivotal moments in life, and if you let them blow past you, then things
just...they just go to pieces, and you can never get all the pieces back again. Jim, it was a *pivotal
moment,* it could've changed the whole course of my *life,* man, and I wanted it, but I just...I
just bailed. Because I didn't *want* to change the course of my life. Because I was scared. I
wanted it so bad, and I was so fucking scared."
Jim pondered that for a minute while he chewed on his pita bread. "So you turned her
down."
"Yeah. Because I'm a major jerk, and stupid, besides."
"Well...you know. It wasn't the right moment."
Sandburg chuckled bitterly. "Damn right it wasn't."
"There was a lot going on."
"Yeah."
"People *want* a lot of things. But it's easy to get caught up with something that's new
and exciting, until you're not really thinking about what happens back in the real world."
"I *know,* I know, man. But I can still regret it, can't I? I mean, is that *allowed*?"
"Sure it's allowed."
"Having all the good reasons in the world to say no doesn't stop me from...you know.
Thinking about how things might have turned out differently."
"Sandburg, this is kind of becoming the story of your life, isn't it?"
For a few seconds, Sandburg looked like he didn't know what Jim was talking about, and
then for a few more he looked like he *did* know, but he wasn't sure if reality was still fully in
place or not. "You *asshole*!" he finally said, jamming his fork into Jim's forearm, but he
already looked like the shock was slipping into some kind of weird admiration. Jim smiled slightly
and pushed Sandburg's hand away; his jacket and sweatshirt had more than protected him against
Sandburg's half-hearted flatware assault. "You asshole, I can't *believe* you're bringing that
up!"
"What, nobody but you is allowed to ponder their interior life?"
"I am having a personal crisis here, man!"
"You are *always* having a personal crisis, Sandburg. You're naturally high-strung."
"Thanks, Jim. Way to downplay my pain."
He gave the tried-and-true sigh of the long-suffering. "I'm not downplaying anything.
I'm just saying...pivotal moments aren't as rare as you think they are. The course of your life is
changing all the goddamn time, Chief. I mean...look at us."
And Sandburg was definitely looking, with those preternaturally *interested* eyes of his,
looking right inside Jim and seeing -- what? Hell if Jim knew. "What about us?"
"Just...our lives. You want to tell me that you saw all of this coming? You, me, the
senses, the thin blue line? Maya, Lash, Veronica?"
"No. I mean...of course not. So...are you saying that everybody feels like this?"
"Nobody died and left me the voice of God. You're not paying me enough to tell you
how everybody feels."
Shakily, Sandburg grinned. "Point taken. But you.... You have...regrets?"
"Yes. I mean, *no.* No, not about-- But life-- I mean, everybody has--"
"Oh, stop it, this is just painful to watch. No more bonding, okay? Let's just go back to
denying our regrets like real men."
Jim shrugged. "It's your day."
They ate, and Jim went back to the buffet for a second plate. Sandburg was already
talking before Jim got completely back into his seat, saying, "In primitive cultures, people don't
have very many possessions, and what they do have carries enormous significance. They don't
just...get rid of things. We have so much, Jim. So much stuff. We have so much that we have to
unload it on each other for seventy-five cents a pop."
"So your concerns about first-world overconsumption makes you go out and...what?
Collect other people's stuff at seventy-five cents a pop?"
"It's not an issue of overconsumption, Jim -- I mean, that's an *issue,* that's a legitimate
issue, but that's not *my* issue. It just seems like nothing has any significance to people
anymore. We spend our whole lives gathering stuff -- souvenirs and presents and stuff for every
occasion, every moment of our *lives* has stuff associated with it. And then we just let it...drift
away. We fucking *sell* it, for practically *nothing.* And we never get it back. I mean, Jim,
look at this." Sandburg fumbled in his pockets for a moment, and came up with the smallest pair
of knitted baby shoes Jim had ever seen, and he shook them in Jim's face as though they were
hard evidence in the trial of the century. "Someday, the kid who wore these is going to be a surly,
smart-assed teenager with a nose piercing, and all her parents are going to want is to have those
moments back, when she was tiny and cute and it was all new. And they're going to have
nothing, because some hippie grad student paid a quarter for them in lieu of eighty-buck-an-hour
therapy for his abandonment issues. How is that fair? What the fuck kind of life *is* this?"
Jim definitely wasn't being paid enough to come up with a good answer for *that*
question, but he couldn't exactly say that to Sandburg, who was suddenly looking at him like Jim
Ellison was the font of all wisdom. "You can't exactly have your pivotal moments and keep
everything exactly the same, too."
"*Well, why the hell not?* That's all I want!"
"Chief, you can spend every Saturday morning for the rest of your natural life buying baby
booties and lamps that look like Sir Richard Burton's indigestion nightmare, but things still go to
pieces, and you still can't gather them all up again."
"All I want is a little stability. Well, you know...and a little adventure. Both."
"I'll see what I can do," Jim said, and he found himself meaning it. Not that Sandburg's
wish was exactly his command, but -- and Jim was willing to face the truth, here -- it had been
several months, and neither he nor Sandburg seemed to be going anywhere. In the great staff
party of life, Jim Ellison and Blair Sandburg had drawn each other's names for the gift exchange,
and if you took it as a given that everything in life came with its own set of regrets, Jim still
couldn't help but feel that in the great scheme of things, they were coping pretty well with the
pivotal moments.