Behind the counter stood Jim, laughing and smiling as he looked up a part for a customer. Finding the part, he proudly tells the customer of his success and suggests a better, less expensive alternative.

Between smiles, Jim occasionally wonders what happened. When he took the job at the parts house after highschool, it was a short-term gig. He was going to go to college, the first in his family, then start his own business and marry a beautiful wife and have a few kids and make some real money. He was a hard worker, and he had dreams.

"Thanks, Jim. 'ppreciate it," the customer smiled sincerely. "They better be treating you right around here, 'cause most of us wouldn't be comin' if it weren't for you. That CJ is a damn idiot," he offered as he began to leave.

CJ was the owners kid, running the business through the success of hard working nepotism. He truly was an idiot, but Jim felt the need to look after him, after the business. CJ's dad had been a good boss, and loved the business, and Jim had great respect for the founder, but CJ was making it all a chore.

After falling in love with a beautiful woman, Jim was crushed when she tossed him aside emotionally castrated. It took him little time to find a very unbeautiful, safe woman to turn into his loyal, mothering wife. He preferred it simple, and enjoyed the safety and security of what he knew. One year blended into the next, into another and another, until it all seemed like too much to return to any plan that was now relegated to childish dreams.

The dream of kids dried up when it turned out she was infertile. He attempted to leave her, but getting caught having an affair failed as an escape route when she did not let him go, and then another year blurred by in simple discomfort, secure. He still dreamed of his own business, but wanted the steady paycheck, and was satisfied with the little extra he made doing side work. Things were good.

"Line 3, Jim."

"Thanks, Del. Hello?"

"I just received your message. I'm sorry," his wife comforted. "Look, you're too good for this. You run that place. If he won't give you a raise then quit and go across the street. They've already said they'll pay you more. You've got to leave! That little CJ can't run the place without you. Quit, you're too good for this!"

"I can't talk now, Sweetie. I've got to go. Don't be mad," he gently pleaded.

"You can't talk?"

"Not now, Sweetie, I've got customers. We'll talk when I get home. Luv ya."

"Alright. Are you going to be home for dinner at 6?"

"Yeah, I'll be there."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, Sweetie. See you when I get home. Luv ya." Jim set the phone down, put on his biggest smile and began again assisting customers.

Jim enjoyed assisting customers. It made him feel good, helping people, confirming his knowledge and usefulness. And as the next 3 hours flew by, he felt like the knowledge king, a benevolent ruler.

As the last customers trickled out, CJ stuck his head through the door, shouting to Jim, "You need to close. I'm going home to have dinner with the family." Before Jim could clear his throat and muster an answer, CJ left for the evening.

Uncertain how to not do his job, Jim began closing. He mumbled and scolded CJ in the loneliness of the empty shop. Half past 6, the phone rang. Jim knew it was his wife, so he did not answer. He started working a bit faster, hoping to get home by 7:15, afraid it would be 8. He continued going through the motions, smiling as he remembered some of the banter he shared with customers during the day, wondering when things would change.

The phone rang, continuously.

There she stands, long and slender, oblivious to the world around her, pretending they are not staring from a distance. She bends to help a little boy pick up some small toys he had dropped on the sidewalk. A car driven by a young man notices her bent figure, and begins to merge toward her, until he is honked into consciousness.

The honk causes the boy's father to turn around. He sees the beauty helping his son, but before he can travel the short distance to his boy, she stood and walked away, patting the little tyke on the head, giving him her infectious smile. They watched her glide away.

The world attends to beauty, but she avoided this by helping others. Her life was filled with helping others. Children were her joy, though she had none. As a nurse, she chose the difficult profession of working in a hospice to provide comfort to the elderly as they passed. Her bright smile, warm eyes, caring touch and soft words gifted them peace. She gave completely, and it was sincere. As beauty, she tended to the world.

Once, her perfect figure was married, to a man she truly loved, but now she just dated, fairly frequently, but never long lasting. It was always the same reason they left; she was complete in all ways, the perfect woman, until the moment of intimacy began. It started as pure joy and excitement, as they saw the supple skin wrapping a gift from God. They shuddered in excitement, but as they began to touch, caress and play, they noticed how little response there was from the caregiver, no matter what they tried. She seemed somehow cold and distant, and the most she offered was a hand that glided them quickly to a hole, the hole, the one quickly offered.

Her husband thought time would make her more comfortable, so he had been patient, but the opposite happened, she began to look away as they became intimate, making herself more distant. After many years he was devastated, questioning her love and had to leave, still desiring the dream of her attentiveness, but no longer able to deny the rejection he felt, saw, knew.

After helping the young boy, she walked into a small café and took a table alone. It was but a few minutes before a brave soul found the courage to approach her, and he was gladdened by her receptiveness, her warm smile. They laughed together, and left together, he full of joy and hope, her giving her complete attention.

The nose, long and thin came to a point under the brim of his red baseball cap, lest you forget his name. The narrow slits on the long fragile face followed the ball bouncing around the field. He flashed a glance over his peppered beard at the professional he hired to run his team. They were losing, again.

Red paced the sideline, clenching his clipboard tightly. "They're stealing this. We're letting them steal this," he mumbled to no one particular, rotating his head from side-to-side in disapproval. "We should have scored 5 times!" He looked down, whispering, stomach in knots.

Everything has a place, a proper way. His house immaculate, because everything has a place. Separate closets for him and her, with his shoes polished side-by-side beneath the suits hung in hue, from black to dark blue. Nothing was allowed out of place. Nothing personal infringed upon the image of his space. Everything clean, fastidious. His wife stood her role, thin, pale, quiet. She hated him as much as he hated himself, but they were parents, and he was a good catch, her parents once thought.

The children were always neatly attired. Each started school a year late, to give them a competitive edge. It seemed to work, as they were encouraged to their strengths, whether athletic or academic, they were propelled to succeed. There was no need for them to be multi-disciplined, they were pushed to the strength Red identified. Everything has a proper way, Red's way.

"No! No! No!" he shouted from under his brim, as the opponents scored, again. He turned to his professional hired gun and stated in demand, "We're better than this!"

"Dad, can I come out?!"

No matter what it took, Red was a closer. Sure, he sued some of his clients and his clients and partners occasionally sued him. Yeah, he had unusually high legal bills for his kind of business, but the business made money, image money, and that was the goal, as he had responsibilities. Everyone quietly knew he loved seeing his name on the signs all over town, but they also knew he could close, no one had ever outlasted him in persuasive conversations, and wearing people down works, he found. Red could be unrelenting.

There were two kinds of people in Red's life, those who did not care for him, and those wanting to be included, too naive to realize their place was as an accessory. He was sure those who did not care for him were envious, which made it easy for him to put them aside, in their place, though he wished his wife would shut-up and better understand her place.

"Dad, can I come out? I don't want to play goalie anymore! I want to play forward," the 10 year old shouted across the field.

The professional trainer, the only person being paid in the children's recreational soccer league, dropped his head and turned away. Red pulled his son out of the goal box and positioned him on the field where he wanted to play. The professional knew Red's son was off limits.

"You played great," Red lied to himself and his son, aloud. Then he turned to the rest of the team on the field. As they neared the end of their loss he shouted "You guys are better than this! Come on, pick it up!"

"It's 'cause your son sucks," one ten-year-old whispered to another, very aware the wrath of Red was beyond earshot. They both laughed.

"Get into the game, boys! I'm not going to lose," he demanded.

Red walked the sideline, his mind spinning. He was not a loser. He paid for a professional. These kids had the best. "Perhaps the professional was losing his touch? There is someone better out there. This problem can be fixed," he bounced around his head.

He crossed the field to shake the coaches hand.

"Good game," the winning coach offered Red with a smile, proud of his kids.

"I'd like to play again, a rematch," Red whined in his high pitch, not letting go of the victor's hand. "We should have beaten you 5-0."

The winning coach smiled, knowing how desperate Red was, how important it was he not lose, he not be a loser. "We'll do it to you again, Red, don't worry," he smirked, clenching Red's bony, fragile hand tightly, then running off to be with his kids.

Under the brim of his hat, Red turned towards his players, who were waiting with their professional for the speech. "They're not losers," Red told himself. "We're not losers," he repeated in his head, over and over, adjusting his shirt, tugging his shorts. "Not losers," he said again. "I should have beaten him 7-0," the voice in his head yelled, as he approached his team. "I'm not going to lose."

Red talked for forty minutes under his red hat. The kids did not hear a single word, they wanted their snacks, and some shade, but they sat waited as Red lectured himself aloud, he too not hearing a word.

Upon first inspection, she was the type of woman men wanted to meet. She had shiny long hair, long nails, an athletic body with fantastic curves and an inviting smile. She looked like a dream, and that is the attraction, the fantasy.

The fantasy starts to deteriorate when you notice her surroundings. The tweaker catering to her whims in hopes of getting a touch. The overbearing boyfriends who share the joy of slapping her around. The grocery bags filled with beer and toiletries, or just beer. It was best when no one looked long enough in her direction to notice such things, and she knew this.

When your mother is a disapproving alcoholic, you need to create some distance. Though she was too old to still be living at home, she was so broken she failed at living anywhere else. An expectation she met every day was failure.

There always being men around, she kept a decent man on the fringes, one who would not hit her and tried to overlook the drinking and depression, but she would not date someone who would not hit her. The decent man could expect to touch the fantasy once, when she felt he might slip away and she wanted to keep him on the tether. He had not considered that if they hit her once, she would be his.

From a distance, without a spoken word, the illusion of her was greatly desired, and was all he saw. Unfortunately, the decent man's mother told her son that he would never be loved by his dream because he could not hit her, and she has never had a relationship with a man who hadn't smacked her around a bit.

He wanted her, desperately. He desired her image, her touch. He needed her to feel alive, worthy, so without thought while arguing after a couple of dozen beers between them, he pulled his hand back to deliver a swift smack. Without thought of hesitation, he did what was necessary to seal their love, and another soul was lost to a fantasy, a failure, a dream that so many shared as nightmare.

It was not easy for him, the uniform, the commitment, the discipline, but his father had encouraged him to join the military to help pay for an education. Stone survived his education and relished the five years he spent as an officer in the military.

Leadership is an innate quality, one Stone did not possess. Fortunately, the military was one of the few places where respect was created, followed, simply because of a title, a rank. Stone had always been attracted to big organizations because of the fact they worked on the power of position premise, but Stone learned the military was something special. The military became his domain of fantasy.

It was peacetime, and all of Stone's friends were doing well in a booming economy. When his commitment to the military was served, he moved on the real world to participate in the bounty, without uniform.

On the coarse, hot asphalt, teams were selected. Two kids remained. Stone was usually the last chosen and was resigned to that position again, but this time he was taken before the little kid. It was his best friend, Julian, picking a team.

"Don't let me down," Julian shouted after picking his friend.

Stone just smiled, grinning ear-to-ear. He had been given a chance to prove he was not the goofy uncoordinated buffoon his teenage fears described. "It was only basketball," he told himself. He could pull it off for one game, just a few minutes. He knew it was his day.

Half-court games are quick, and Stone was all over the court. He went for every ball like he was chasing a prized butterfly. He moved to the open spot every time his team took possession. He knew he was playing the game of his life, and was jubilant when his team won.

"Yeah!" Stone shouted.

Julian smiled. "What was wrong with you today? That was the worst game I've ever seen you play. Did you touch the ball once?

"Don't worry, you'll do better next time. We'll work on your game," his friend offered, patting him on the back.

The queasy feeling Stone felt from game exertion now started to tumble as his heart sank. He did everything he could, even forcing a smile, but it did not work. To everyone's surprise and disgust, Stone began to vomit on the hot asphalt.

"See, I told you something was wrong with him," he heard Julian tell another teammate in defense of his play.

Stone knew the only thing wrong was that he had played the best. Athletically, he knew he could not compete with his peers, but it was not a surprise, just another disappointment. He had tried to be the funny man, but his mind worked too slowly for a battle of wits. He tried to be a campus politician, but the other kids would not take him seriously. He tried.

There was no avenue not pursued. Stone wanted to be the alpha male, but nothing seemed to work. He could not be the wildest, coolest frat-boy in college. He was not a thug. The list of "not's" grew at every opportunity, but he kept trying.

The necessity of the military took him where he belonged. Stone could follow orders, and there was no better booth licker in any service. Though it was a time of peace, he learned the words, the phrases of the military that allowed society to recognize a hero in waiting.

Through years of training, Stone looked like a strong man. He spoke like a forceful man. He carried himself like a leader, a man who respected himself and commanded the respect of others. He exited the military proud. The pride he found in uniform allowed him to obtain a good job and an attractive wife. They were his new uniform.

Time is the assassin of all mirages. After ten years in civilian life, the authentic Stone returned. He could not produce at work, so danced like a virgin before the gods, jumping from one job to another to avoid the sharp blade of the termination axe. His wife, his children, all worked hard to believe, but only time ceased could withhold the truth.

Peace is a double-edged sword, and pride was cut. His country was attacked, so Stone stood tall, gut now bulging. He knew the words, the call to battle, and he knew where to go to sign the papers to enlist again. Worried about what lay ahead, they took the older, experienced officer back into the fold of a powerful force.

Something began to return. Pride again grew. Stone knew his place. He did as told. He told and they did. He had come home again, where he could be the man he dreamed. Words of strength, of war, of purpose flowed from his uniformed figure.

Training ended. The target determined. War was set and the troops began to ship off to a battle Stone had thought was just talk, just tense peace and posturing, not real life and death where words carried less weight than explosiveness of action. The mirage of war through words was to be vanquished.

Frozen by fear, Stone began to oppose the war, to oppose everything about the military. He wanted out. He wanted to hide. He had to be who he was, not a hero, not a leader. He had to make an exit at all costs.

His fellow soldiers went to battle. Stone faked injury to buy a bit of time. He tried to resign, but the act of cowardice was not allowed. He pleaded. He begged. He tried to shoot himself in the leg, but was unable to pull the trigger. He was the desperate boy playing basketball, the worst game of his life.

Others went, some died. Stone stayed, suffering the most tragic death of all, becoming a ghost of his former weakness. All knew, all saw, but everyone pretended nothing had changed, and really nothing had. The true Stone was bare, sans postured purpose, ideals, and dreams.

Heroes do not send cowards into battle, as they bring harm. Stone served his tour behind a desk, shuffling unnecessary paper, disappearing as a ghost in plan view of his peers. He hated the military. He hated the military with passion. He hated himself, and it was their fault.

The young boy puking on the asphalt basketball court was now a middle-aged man who every morning and every evening wanted to vomit on the world that ensconced him, for turning him into such a vile creature, not allowing him to be something he was not, not letting him enjoy the pose.

"If I had just gone," he would allow his mind to whisper, knowing he no longer looked anyone who knew him directly in the eyes. They knew the emptiness that lay within his soul. He was most terrified of mirrors, where he caught glimpse of his soul, a ghost taunting what could have been.

Strangers now brought the mirage of hope. Stone lit up when he met strangers. They did not know him, and he could fake it, be the man others expected, but it never took long for strangers to see the pain, the ghost of self-loathing carrying his soul, and his moment of happiness and possibility ended.

If he had only pushed past his fear of self that once, how different he would be to him, how different he would become. If only he had done the impossible.

Another week, another hundred years, it made no difference. Stone knew who he was, what decisions he would make, and so did everyone else - family, friends, co-workers. Stone died every time he froze in fear and failed, but he had forever crushed the hope of dreams, of possibility.

Stone came to accept fear would always be the victor. If he liked, respected, trusted himself to take the smallest risk, who knows what might have been, but he is safe, and surpassing "if" is the step of giants.

If he had learned to like himself a bit, trusted his ability to overcome just a tad, he could have been something, something simple: A full, erect, man who others could trust, depend upon, admire, a man who could look his wife and children in the eyes and himself in the mirror. That was not him. That was not Stone. That was not possible.

Stone is safe.

It was a Wednesday long lost, but it was the day he stopped living. He passed by a mirror and stopped for a glance, something he did on occasion, but not too often. On this Wednesday he saw wrinkles around his eyes. Smile wrinkles.

He had a Cheshire grin, so the wrinkles were pronounced, deep, common in his family, but they were wrinkles. It marked age, and he was frightened, so he paused in front of the mirror long enough to trace every etch of time on his face. But the lines were growing, so he paused and watched.

Time passed as he stood, afraid of the wrinkles, of time, of death, so he watched, trying to make sure there was nothing new. More wrinkles came as he watched and waited, saddened.

While others lived their lives, he kept a close watch on the mirror, regretting lost youth, watching the horror of time he could see climbing upon him, pausing in front of the mirror.

It was a Wednesday some twenty years ago when he began his pause in front of the mirror. He has done little since monitoring the markings of life spent, wishing the wrinkles were not, regretting his misspent youth, misspending the gift of another twenty years.

It was a Thursday, decades later. He has determined to go out and live, but he paused in his reflection, wondering who was the old man in the mirror. He froze, knowing another twenty years was about to slip.

He felt the grip of fear, regretting the last forty years of waiting, regretting the last week, regretting yesterday. He picked up the bottle of after-shave and smashed it into the mirror. He was no longer visible.

His reflection was broken. He did not care. He wanted no regrets for just one day. Today. Just today. One day. Clenching the bottle of after-shave in case he needed to smash any more mirrors, he wandered out into his front yard in his underwear and looked into the sky. It was his moment without regret. He'd take just the moment.