The Outgoing

The Outgoing Copyright © 2022 by Thomas A. BuhrAll world rights reserved This is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior consent of the publisher. Readers are encouraged to go to www.MissionPointPress.com to contact the author or to find information on how to buy this book in bulk at a discounted rate. Published by Mission Point Press 2554 Chandler Rd. Traverse City, MI 49696 (231) 421-9513 www.MissionPointPress.com Design by Sarah Meiers ISBN 978-1-958363-64-5 Library of Congress Control Number 2023900510 Printed in the United States of America To Kathy and Rick,not just family but best friends. What fates impose, that men must needs abide; It boots not to resist both wind and tide —William Shakespeare CHAPTER 1 Lost in the Woods I remember the sad story of Donny Massengale and Roland Parrish. It came screaming through the haze of my day-to-day existence back then in the spring of 1984. I was watching the evening news in my apartment in Orlando, while nursing a hangover and lighting another smoke when Peter Jennings told me. “There is now an extensive search for two college students who went on a fishing trip in Northern Michigan and have not been seen in over a week,” the network anchorman said in that eloquent, continental delivery of his. I cracked a beer — hair of the dog — while Jennings kicked it to a reporter in front of the Michigan State Police Forensic Lab in Grayling, Michigan. “Donny Massengale and Roland Parrish are faces in the crowd,” the reporter said with grim professionalism while pictures of the young men appeared on the screen (one short and stocky with short dark hair and plenty of facial stubble, the other tall and lean with longer blondish hair). “We all have a Donny and Roland in our lives. They were taking a break before summer classes at Central Michigan University to fish Michigan’s famous Au Sable River. The few folks that remember seeing them on April 29th said the boys were friendly but not very knowledgeable of the area. No one has seen them since. It’s been ten days.” No one, save the pizza delivery boy, had seen me in three days. I’d stocked the frig with Miller Lite, bought a quart of Jack and negotiated a deal for a gram and a half on Monday. The last three days had been wash-rinse-repeat with plenty of tunes — The Who always led off a binge while Neil Young always finished it — and the TV as living wallpaper, interspersed with periods of blackout. It had become my thing. “Nobody’s fucking looking for me!” I shouted at the screen. “What about me?” The reporter went on: “Instead of fishing the night of April 29th, the pair went to several bars in the area. A neighbor heard Donny’s red Blazer pull into his uncle’s cabin sometime around midnight. It was gone by seven the next morning when the same neighbor came out to walk his dog.” A parade of locals and law officers flashed across the screen, each speaking stoically into the reporter’s mic while adding another dark stroke to the story. I could relate to the boy’s behavior. I loved to fish but did a helluva lot more drinking than fishing back then. Still the news intrigued me beyond shared affinities. I knew the area, had canoed the Au Sable as a kid at summer camp, camped in the nearby forests, even caught a few trout on a Mepps spinner and a Zebco rod and reel. I was a native Michigander and downstate kid to boot, charmed by Northern Michigan’s Big Wild. It would turn out they were as well. I sat in a trance, sipping that beer and hot boxing my smoke, as the facts were laid out. The red Blazer never appeared again. The neighbor thought nothing of it until the uncle showed up a week later. He asked about the boys, frowned at the reply, went into the cabin to find dirty dishes in the sink, uneaten food in the frig, duffle bags barely unpacked, and beds hardly touched. He called the police. A search was underway involving county and state cops, U.S. Fish and Wildlife, and Department of Natural Resources law enforcement officers. Michigan National Guard units from nearby Camp Grayling helped with the effort. The TV had shots of boats dragging lakes and military helicopters sweeping over the stands of aspen, pine and oak in hopes of finding a clue. “They’re out there somewhere,” the uncle told the reporter. Then it was back to the anchor desk and the day’s next story, something about Jesse Jackson’s campaign. I got up, took a piss and went back to bed. There were follow-up stories over the next week. Even The Orlando Sentinel had a couple of articles on The Missing Michigan Trout Fishermen as they were now being called. It was big news until it wasn’t. Something took its place, but I can’t remember what. After that first story I lost interest because I was getting lost myself. Another night on the town in the seediest bars possible with cheaper drinks, better jukeboxes, and easier women. Another gram or two, or an eight-ball if I could find folks to chip in. Another long night of craziness and debauchery. Another long day of shame and regret. Who has time for other people’s problems when they are too busy creating their own? It’s a full-time job descending the long and winding trail to the gates of Hell. Then a couple weeks later I almost made it. My dad found me OD’ing on the couch in the living room, gasping for breath, sweating