Gents Journey
Helping Men become the Gentleman they deserve to be. This Podcast is part inspiration part motivation. We discuss what it takes to be a Gentleman in the 21st Century. We also talk about how to deal with the internal and external battles that life throws at us. So come be apart of the Gents Journey!
Gents Journey
Death Of Peace Of Mind: The One Who Kept The Ledger
The haunting fourth episode of Death of Peace of Mind pulls you into a rain-soaked noir mystery where debts aren't measured in dollars but in broken promises and maintained silences. In the decrepit Ashburn Motel's Room 217, Detective Grayson faces a chilling scene – a murdered man propped at his desk, a burned ledger marked in blood-red ink, and five words that will echo through the investigation: "The Green Bar Keeps the Books."
As Grayson and his partner Black chase connections between victims, a pattern emerges in red-inked messages, burned pages, and staged crime scenes. Each victim thought they were keeping the books, but they were merely entries in a larger ledger. The investigation grows increasingly personal for Grayson, who recognizes something familiar in the meticulous accounting of debts – a rhythm he knows all too well.
The narrative transforms from detective story into profound metaphor, suggesting we all maintain internal ledgers where we record our emotional debts. Every unreturned message, every relationship abandoned, every promise broken isn't forgotten but tallied, accruing interest until payment comes due. The investigation reveals a haunting truth: fire can't destroy what you owe; it only changes the format.
This episode offers five powerful reflections to audit your own life: identifying who you owe more than money, confronting the memories you've tried to burn away, addressing the silences charging interest in your relationships, recognizing whose approval you're still accounting to, and acknowledging what promises to yourself remain unfulfilled. Because peace of mind doesn't come from pretending your books are balanced – it comes from finally balancing them yourself.
Share your thoughts on this episode through the "Let's Chat" function in the podcast description, email anthony@gentsjourney.com, or reach out on Instagram @mygentjourney. Remember – you create your reality, but every action leaves a mark in the ledger.
"True mastery is found in the details. The way you handle the little things defines the way you handle everything."
Hello and welcome to the Gentleman's Journey podcast. My name is Anthony, your host, and today we are in episode four of the Death of Peace of Mind. My goodness, we're almost halfway through this, guys, but before we start again, I just want to just give a big shout out to you guys. Thank you so much for your guys to support on all of these episodes. It's just we are just doing crazy, crazy numbers, and it's just. I wanted just to thank you guys. Okay, so let's go ahead and let's get into the cold opening room 217, chicago, october 1987.
Speaker 1:The rain has a way of polishing the city until it gleams like something you can't afford. It slicks the streets, makes the neon bleed whiter, stretches the shadows until they look like things waiting for you. Tonight it beats down steady a sheet of sound over the south side. Grayson pulls into the parking lot of the Ashburn Motel, the kind of place that pretends it's still open by keeping the vacancy sign still buzzing red. Half the letter's dead. The lot is nearly empty. A Buick sits near the far corner. Windows fog, faint sound leaking from the inside. It's Phil Collins in the air tonight. The drumbeat thuds against the rain like a second heartbeat.
Speaker 1:Room 217 is taped off, but the tape hangs loose. Wind flutters against it like a brick. Black is already there, leaning against the wall just under the flickering light. Leather jacket zipped to her throat, hair damp, cigarette burning low between her fingers. Her boots shine with rain. She looks up when Grayson steps out of the car. No words, just a nod. They go in together. The smell hits first Cheap, disinfectant mildew and something copper underneath, blood trying to hide itself in the carpet. The lamp by the bed buzzes weak, throwing a pale light across the room. The TV hums static, a white glow that makes the shadows jitter like they're alive.
Speaker 1:Victor Hayes is sitting at the desk, or what's left of him. He's been propped up like he's falling asleep doing his accounts, pen still in his hand, ledger open in front of him, but the back of his head is missing, a dark smear sprayed against the faded wallpaper. His tie is loose, shirt sleeves rolled, a calculator resting beside his elbow. The scene has been staged. But calculator resting beside his elbow? The scene has been staged, but not for subtlety.
Speaker 1:Black exhale smoke through her nose, mutters Jesus Christ. Grayson says nothing. He walks forward careful, every step loud. In the soaked carpet. The ledger is burned along the edges, pages curling inward like the fire, tried to eat the numbers but couldn't finish the job. Across the center of the last page, in red ink that bleeds heavy through the paper, are five words the green bar keeps the books.
Speaker 1:Grayson stares. The hum of the TV swells, static, louder, as though it knows something. His cigarette dangles from his lips, forgotten, the ash stretching too long before it drops to the floor. He reads the number squalled down on the left margin Debts, names, amount. And then a final column slashed out, red ink, thick and violent. Each line ends the same way Paid Black steps closer. Her boots squeaking against the carpet Looks like someone didn't like his math. She leans over eyes on the red letters. The green bar keeps the books. You ever heard that before? Grayson jaw works but no sun comes out. Finally he rests. No, but the words taste like a lie.
Speaker 1:Flashback Ten years ago, different desk, different ledger. Grayson is younger. Sleeves rolled, red ink in his hand Marking down names, debts, ious, ramos sweating across the table, whispering deals. A voice in Grayson's head telling him this isn't corruption, it's order. This is how you keep the streets clean by keeping the books. He blinks and the memory is gone.
Speaker 1:Back in room 217, the only sound is the static. On the nightstand sits a matchbook Ashburn Motel logo stamped in faded blue, inside written in the same red ink Some debts never close. Black sees it too, picks it up with gloved fingers, flips it open. The words catch the light, bleed across the sulfur tips. She doesn't look at him when she asks you think this is the same hand as Ramos, the same as Eli?
Speaker 1:Grayson lights a fresh cigarette, inhales deep the smoke, curls towards the ceiling fan like it hasn't worked in years. Looks that way. Black closes the matchbox, sets it down. Then we've got a problem. Someone thinks they're the accountant of the dead. From outside, through the rain, a new sound cuts in A jukebox. The motel bar across the lot has sprung to life even this late. The muffled echo of tear for fear's shout. The chorus bleeds through the walls, mixing with the static hum. The rain and the cigarette crackle, shout, shout, let it all out. The lyrics don't fit, and yet they do.
Speaker 1:Grayson looks back at the body, at the ledger, at the red ink. The page stares up at him like it knows his name. The green fire keeps the books. He exhales the smoke long and slow. Black says gray. He doesn't answer because in the white noise of the TV and the thrall of the juju box outside and the scratch of the rain against the glass, he swears he hears laughter, low, quiet, patient, like someone turning a page. Quiet, patient, like someone turning a page.
Speaker 1:Part One the Ledger, the precinct, feels swollen tonight. Too much rain tracked in on boots, too much smoke curling under fluorescent lights, too many voices pitched too high. The storm outside hasn't let up. It drums against the windows, a constant reminder that the city never really goes quiet. Grayson hangs his coat over his chair, water dripping down the sleeve. His tie is crooked, shirt collar stiff from the damp. He doesn't sit, not. Yet His eyes go straight to the board. The board has become a body.
Speaker 1:Eli Mathers, victor Ramos, mary Blake and now Victor Hayes, four faces stapled in the same skeleton. Red thread running through them like veins. Matchbooks pinned like arteries, ledger pages stapled like ribs. The whole thing looks less like an investigation and more like an autopsy. At the heart of it, burning through the paper with its presence, is a single phrase the green bright keeps the books penned in red, underlined twice Black, stands at the table flipping through the evidence, bagged from room 217.
Speaker 1:Her hair is still damp her jacket, creased from the rain. She doesn't look tired, not exactly, but the kind of alert that comes when you're circling prey. She sets the ledger down. Between them the pages are curled, singed along the edges, black soot clinging to the corners. The ink inside is worse red that bled, heavy, cutting through the lines, slashing through names. Each one ends the same way Paid.
Speaker 1:Grayson lights a cigarette, drags deep, the smoke spills across the desk. He leans over the book like he hasn't seen it before. Careful, black says. Her tone's flat, but her eyes are still sharp. He doesn't answer. His thumb brushes the margin where the ink is thickest. It feels raised, almost alive, like blood dried into the paper. From across the room a dust radar crackles faint through the noise.
Speaker 1:Phil collins, I don't care anymore. The drums hit hollow, the chorus bleeding like an accusation through the static. Well, I don't care what you say. I never did believe you much. Anyway, the lyrics cut too close.
Speaker 1:Grayson exhales smokes, slow eyes narrowing at the numbers. He knows this rhythm. Debts turn to lists, names turn to leverage. He's seen this script before. Black slides a chair out and drops into it. You're awfully quiet. I'm reading, you're remembering. Her pen taps against the desk. The sound's sharp, steady. She doesn't look away. You want me to tell you why you freeze up every time this name comes up, why the green bottle rattles you more than the corpse is.
Speaker 1:Grayson closes a ledger. The thud echoes heavier than it should. Because it's a pattern, he says, and patterns don't stop until they finish the sequence. Black studies him. Her silence is worse than her questions. Finally, she says you ever think you're a part of it? It? Grayson flicks ash into the tray. What's that supposed to mean? You're in every room before it goes cold. You recognize details. No one else does and somehow you never look surprised. The words land like knives. He doesn't answer.
Speaker 1:Flashback different ledger, different desk. A young Grayson leaning over the table, red ink in his hand we're almost across from sweating through his shirt, whispering names like currency. The smell of smoke is heavy. The sound of a typewriter clicking as the debts were logged. A voice in his head this isn't corruption, this is order. He blinks. The memory dies Back in the present.
Speaker 1:He opens the ledger again. There's a name near the bottom of the page, half burned, ink smudged but still visible. His eyes lock on it For a second. He swears it's his. Then the paper curls edge, blackening further and then the letters vanish. He blinks and black notices what did you see? Nothing. He lies. She doesn't call him on it, she doesn't have to. The silence between them writes it louder than words. The radio across the room sputters, the Phil Collins track bleeding into the static, then into silence and for a split second under the hum of the storm. Outside Grayson hears a whisper, not from the radio, from the book, paid. He snaps it shut again. This time he doesn't open it.
Speaker 1:Part 2 Pattern Recognition. The storm hasn't let up. Rain drills against the precinct window, steady as a drumline, rattling the glass like it wants in. Inside the air is thick, wet coat, steaming, asht trace full the smell of coffee burned down to its bitter bones.
Speaker 1:Grayson blacks sit across from each other in the evidence room. Ledger spread open between them like a corpse on a slab. The fluorescent light above buzzes flickers and studies. The pages are warped from the fire. Names march down, the columns loans, stats, payoffs, each ending with the same red slash.
Speaker 1:Paid Black leans forward, pen tapping against her notepad. Her hair clings damp to her temples, leather jacket creaking every time she shifts. She doesn't look at him when she says the handwriting's the same Ramos Hayes, mary's napkin, eli's matchbook all the same red ink, all the same hand. She flips to another page, taps it hard enough. The paper tears. Tell me that's not a pattern. Grayson exhales smokes slow, drags the ash long before it flicks off. He keeps his voice level. It's a pattern, but not random. No, then what? His eyes locked on the numbers. Every page is a rhythm Debts traded like currency, ious turned into weapons. It doesn't look like accounting, it looks like scripture.
Speaker 1:From the corner, one of the rookies curses at his walkman, pops the cassette out, blows on it, shoves it back in. The muffled thump of Peter Gabriel big time leaks through the foam headphones. While I'm on my way, I'm making it big time. The irony isn't lost. The song rattles thin against the rain, an anthem to hunger, an access wallet staring at a man's ledger-turned death warrant.
Speaker 1:Black glances at the kid, then back at Grayson Fits, doesn't it? Somebody's making a point that's payoffs, erasures, like the city is a balance sheet and we're just numbers waiting to be crossed out. Grayson doesn't answer because she's not wrong. Because she's not wrong, he flips to the back of the ledger. The last page is darker, the burn deeper, almost hollowed out. A faint scrawl, survives near the bottom margin, half melted but still legible.
Speaker 1:The waiting list Below it. Five names, four already slashed through and read. Only one remains untouched. Black squints. You recognize it, grayson. Pulse hits hard. He forces his voice even. No, she watches him too long, too sharp. Funny, she says, leaning back, because you read it like you've seen it before Flashback, smoke, thick, a bar's back room a decade earlier. Ramos is sweating and begging A ledger on the table, grayson's hand, steady, with the pen, red ink marking names, the same name written once circled twice, he blinks. The room is gone.
Speaker 1:Back in the evidence room, black voice cuts through the static of his head. Talk to me, gray. What kind of game is this? Who the hell is keeping these books? The rain hammers harder against the windows. The light overhead buzzes louder, flickers again.
Speaker 1:Grayson stares at the last page, at the single name, unmarked. He doesn't move, doesn't breathe, because in that second he swears, the letters shift. Not burned, not inked, etched Like. The name was carved into the page with a blade and for a heartbeat he sees his own. He shuts the book fast. The clap echoes through the room, black stiffens. What was that? Nothing, you're lying. He excels smoke. Slow, steady, as if he can't erase the tremor in his hand. I'm telling you it's nothing. Her silence is louder than an accusation. She leans back, folds her arms and studies him like he's a ledger itself. Every crack, every mark, every place where the fire didn't burn clean, the walkman across the room warps into chorus again, so much larger than life. The words bleed into the static. Grayson stares at the ledger and though the room is full of voices, typewriters, rain and music, he hears it A whisper, paid in full.
Speaker 1:Part 3. Room 217. The Ashburn Motel doesn't sleep. It just rots quieter when the rain slows.
Speaker 1:By the time Grayson pulls back into the lot, the storm has dulled to a drizzle. Puddles spread across the cracked asphalt, neons reflecting in them like broken mirrors. The red vacancy sign buzzes over his head, letters still stuttering. He shouldn't be here. The scene's cleared evidence backed, photos taken. But he can't stay away.
Speaker 1:He lights a cigarette in the car, inhales deep, then kills it after one drag. The taste is wrong. The air is too heavy. Room 217 waits. The tape's gone, peeled away. The doors creak when he pushes it open.
Speaker 1:The smell rolls out, thick and heavy, disinfectant, sharp. But underneath it's copper and mildew, the kind of smell that clings to your clothes. Inside it's worse. The carpet's still damp, blotch, darker, where haze bled. The lamp on the desk still buzz with a sick yellow light. The wallpaper near the bloodstain is bubbled from moisture flaking like dead skin. The TV hums, static, white glow flickering. The ledger sits where he left it, closed, but heavier somehow, like it's waiting.
Speaker 1:Grayson steps inside, shuts the door behind him. The lock clicks too loud. He lights another cigarette. The smoke rolls through the static hum. He sets the matchbook down on the desk. The motel's logo grins back. Cheap ink fading inside. The words still cut Some debts, never close. The sulfur tips look darker now, like they've been burned already.
Speaker 1:He flips the book shut. But when he looks back at the desk the ledger is open. He doesn't touch it. The pages are turned to the middle. Names march down, the columns, debts and dates ink dark and wet like it was just written. His eyes track them even as his chest tightens. Some of the names he knows detectives, street pushers, bartenders, judges. Others he doesn't, until he does Halfway down. His eyes lock on a name circled twice His Grayson. The cigarette trembles between his fingers. Ash spills across the open page. He blinks the name's gone. He shuts the ledger fast, heart pounding. The TV static shifts louder and higher, then voices faint, buried in the white noise you always knew. Grayson steps back, the screen flickers, the snow twists into lines, then into words, letters scratched across the static, jagged and alive. You kept the books. He jerks the cord from the wall, the screen dies, the silence is worse.
Speaker 1:Flashback Ten years earlier, a backroom bar. The smoke's so thick, it coats the throat. Ramos leans forward, sweaty, desperate, pushing names across the table like poker chips. Grayson, younger, red pen, steady, he draws lines, circles, names, balances columns, tells himself. As isn't corruption, it's order. Every name feels like justice when he crosses them out, until he starts hearing them whisper back. He blinks Back in room 217.
Speaker 1:The ledger is closed again. But something new awaits. The desk drawer is cracked open. He pulls it Inside a single folded note, the paper yellowed at the edges. He opens it with shaken hands. The handwriting is in the same red ink. He always known how the numbers end. The smoke from a cigarette drifts across the page, curling like a signature, and from the bar below, faint, through the foreboards, a jukebox track slips up, muffled but clear enough to chill the Depeche Mode. Blasphemous Rumors. I don't want to start any blasphemous rumors, but I think that God's got a sick sense of humor. The laughter of the song rises under his feet, mixing with the static in his head. Grayson folds the note, pockets it, leaves the room without turning off the light Because something in them knows the ledger isn't finished, it's just getting started.
Speaker 1:Part 4. The Interview Tapes. The evidence room smells like damp cardboard and stale smoke, the kind of air that settles into your lungs and then stays there. Rolls of shelves grown under the weight of boxes, manila folders, reel-to-reels old cases stacked beside the new history rotting in slow motion. Grayson sits at the table in the center Haze box in front of him, black leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, her boots squeaking on linoleum every time she shifts her weight. Rain hammers the windows overhead, a low hum fills the space, fluorescent lights buzzing in uneven rhythm.
Speaker 1:The box is full of tapes, dozens of them, each labeled in Hay's neat block handwriting dates, names, room numbers, transactions logged in, hiss and static. Grayson pulls one at random March 12th 1986. The tape squeals when he slots it into the machine, then clicks into a steady whirl. A voice spills out Hayes, calm, even Two grand on Friday, five on the 12th. You don't pay. You don't breathe. Then another voice, unsteady, nervous. A debtor, I'll get it, I swear. Haze cuts it off. The books don't lie. The tape clicks off, ends in silence. Black pushes off the doorframe, steps closer. He taped everything. Christ, you think he kept these for leverage.
Speaker 1:Grayson lights a cigarette, exhales smoke towards the ceiling People like him always do. He reaches for another. This one is different. The label's smeared, red ink bleeding through the paper. No date, just a word, ledger. Grayson frowns, slots it in. The tape whirls.
Speaker 1:Static at first. Then haze again, but broken this time. Voice warped, the numbers don't match the debts. A pop of static, then silence. Grayson leans closer. Another voice bleeds in lower, rougher. You kept the books.
Speaker 1:Grayson, hands freezes on the table. The cigarette trembles between his fingers, ash spilling onto the box. Black glances at him. What is it? He doesn't answer. The tape crackles again. Haze returns frantic. It wasn't supposed to be this way. The voice cuts, warps and something else pushes through the hiss. His own voice, grayson's, ledger's, yours. The words slamming to him like a fist. He pulls the headphones off, a heart still pounding. Black steps forward sharp. What did you hear? He shakes his head. Nothing, bullshit. He doesn't look her, just stubs the cigarette out hard, grinding into the ashtray until the black smears.
Speaker 1:The tape keeps spinning, hissing, then faint under the static. Something else slips through Music, warped and slow. Peter Gabriel's Mercy Street. The lyrics bleed through like whispers through a tunnel. Looking down on empty streets, all she can see. The song warps, dissolves, collapses back into the static. Grayson's skin crawls. Black stares at him, unblinking. You're rattled, gray, more rattled than the rest of us, gray, more rattle than the rest of us. Why he doesn't move, doesn't breathe. The tape sputters one last time Thin, clear, sharp, unmistakable Ledger's, yours, walter. The reel spins down and clicks off. The silence after feels like a verdict.
Speaker 1:Part 5. The Vanishing Point. The Ashburn bar doesn't close. Well, not really. It just slumps into itself after midnight. Lights dimmed, jukebox wheezing, old vinyl through blown speakers. The rain outside has thinned into a drizzle, but the neon still bleeds wide across the parking lot, red and green smeared across every puddle.
Speaker 1:Grayson pushes through the door. The smell hits first wet cigarettes, stale beer, bleats that fail to cover the mildew. The carpet squishes under his shoes. Every stool at the bar is scarred, the vinyl ripped open like old wounds. Behind the counter the bartender barely looks up, a mane built out of tired bones, beard yellowed from smoke, eyes flat. He wipes the counter with a rag that only moves the gram around. You're late, he mutters, like Grayson was expected. Grayson doesn't answer. He takes a stool, lights a cigarette, lets the smoke bleed into the neon haze.
Speaker 1:The jukebox in the corner hums a faint mechanical groan and the opening chords of the car's drive spell out Warped, but clear enough to stick. Who's gonna tell you when it's too late? Who's gonna tell you when things aren't so great? The lyrics hang heavy, too perfect. The bartender pours him a whiskey without asking, sets it down. The glass is chipped, the liquid tastes like fire and dust.
Speaker 1:You knew Hayes, grayson says. The man smirks without humor. Everyone knew Hayes. He kept the books. Grayson exhales smoke, eyes narrowed. What kind of books? The bartender shrugs. Depends on who you're asking. For some it was protection, for others blackmail, for most a countdown.
Speaker 1:From the corner of his eyes, grayson sees something on the floor, a torn ledger page. He bends to pick it up. It's gone. The carpet's empty. He's straight and slow, thudding harder than it should. The bartender's watching him now, eyes sharper than before. You look like a man who's seen the numbers. He says Gretchen, crests his cigarette into the ashtray and you look like a man who talks too much. The bartender just smiles, shows his teeth that aren't all his.
Speaker 1:The jukebox whirls, the song skip warps, then bleeds into something darker. Echo on the bunny man, the killing moon. The chorus spills across the room, ghost-like Fate, up against your will. The bartender leans closer, voice low. Funny thing about fate. You can't pay it off, you can't erase it, you can only meet it when it comes due. Grayson doesn't move, he doesn't blink. The bartender steps back, pours another drink, then mutters Haste, thought he was the accountant, but he was just another debtor. The lights flicker and for a second the whole bar is drowned in darkness. When the neon buzzes back, the bartender is gone. Glass still wet on the counter, rags still folded, but no man. The jukebox spins down, the song stuttering into static. Grayson stands chest tight. The ashtray in front of him is full of cigarettes. He didn't smoke. He leaves without finishing the drink.
Speaker 1:Back at his apartment. The rain starts again, harder now. The building groans other than the weight of it. He pushes the door open, flicks the switch, nothing. The ball's been unscrewed again. The streetlight glow seeps through the blinds, faint and sick enough to show him the wall. The ashbriar has grown. What was once a single vine has twisted outward, curling sharp across the plaster. Thorns etch, darker, heavier. The shape is deliberate, now A ledger. Columns and names. Grayson's Monologue.
Speaker 1:Some nights feel like the city is just one long column of debts. You walk the streets and every neon sign, every siren, every cigarette burning down to the filter feels like an entry in a book you'll never balance. You start to wonder if the ledger's been open the whole time, if all you've been doing is living on borrowed credit you've never meant to pay back. Victor Ramos, eli Mathers, mary Blake Names scattered across the board, tied together by a red thread, but in my head they all line up neat, a list, a sequence, one that doesn't stop until every page is full.
Speaker 1:And the worst part isn't that they're dead. The worst part is that each one feels like a warning Hayes with his calculator, ramos with his IOU, mary with her record, eli with his matchbook. They're not random, they're signatures, tally marks carved into the city's skin, and I keep ending up in the room when the pen comes down. I tell myself it's chance. I tell myself it's the job, but the silence after each scene feels too familiar, like someone already told me how it would end and I ignored it. Ledger doesn't care about excuses, it doesn't care about alibis, it only cares about balance. That's the part no one wants to admit. The city isn't built on justice, it's built on arithmetic. Every deal you cut, every promise you break, every silence you keep. Those aren't mistakes, they're entries. And one day the total gets tallied. You can burn the paper, you can hide the names, but the debt doesn't die, it just waits.
Speaker 1:I remember the first time I hauled a ledger in my hand Not Hayes, not Ramos's, mine. Simple notebook, red ink on the margin, a kid with a badge and too much belief in order. I told myself I was keeping the streets clean, that if I log the names, circle the debts, control the flow. I can keeping the streets clean, that if I logged the names, circled the debts, controlled the flow, I could make the dirt work for me. I thought I was the one holding the pen, but looking at Hayes, propped up in the motel room, his own book burned around the edges, his head split open against the wall, I realized something I've been trying not to say out loud nobody holds the pen forever.
Speaker 1:The ledger writes back black. Keep asking me why it rattles me so bad, why I can't stand the words greenbrier on the board, why I look at the handwriting like I've seen it before. I tell her it's the job, just the case. But every time I say it it feels more like I'm lying under oath. Because the truth is, I know the rhythm, I know the language. Some debts never close. The ledger keeps the book, the waiting list. Those aren't just phrases, they're sermons, and a part of me can't tell if I'm hearing them from the killer or if I'm whispering to myself for years.
Speaker 1:Sometimes I think about Mary's apartment, the sweater folded on the chair, the record spinning even after the power cut, the mirror etched with words. I never said it's not grief, well, not exactly, it's accounting. She waited for me, that was her debt and I never paid it. And maybe that's the cruelty of the ledger. It doesn't just count the money, it counts the absences, the silences, the lights you leave on in rooms you never return to.
Speaker 1:Hazes' ledger burned, but the message lived, because fire can't kill the truth. You already owe. That's the weight, that's the ache, that's the page still open in front of me, no matter how many times I slam it shut. The storm outside hasn't stopped in days. It feels like the windows rattle, like they're going to give Every thunderclap, feels like the city turning a page. I can't shake the feeling that when it lands on the last one, the name on the bottom won't be Hayes or Ramos or Eli or Mary, it'll be mine, and the column won't say owed, it'll say paid.
Speaker 1:I am the Greenbrier, I keep the books. Every name you speak, every promise you break, every silence you sell. It comes to me. I see the marks you leave on paper, on walls, on faces. I see the way you try to erase, to burn, to bury, but the ledger doesn't burn. The ledger remembers.
Speaker 1:The mistake men like Hayes make is believing they own the ink, that they control the columns, that they can circle names and bury themselves clean with other people's blood. But Hayes was never the accountant, he was just another debtor. Understand this. The ledger is not a book, it's a body. Every name is carved into it like another vein, another artery, another heart pumping debt through this city and when you touch it you feel the pulse. When you're writing it, you cut yourself open. I am the one who closes it. I see the threads you think no one notices. Ramos' and his IOUs Eli with his matchbooks, mary with her poems, harry Hayes with his calculator. Different tools, same crime.
Speaker 1:Belief that silence can be leveraged, that waiting can be protected, that debt can be negotiated. It can't. Balance is absolute. The rules are simple If you owe, you pay. If you hide, you're found. If you keep a record, you forfeit yourself to it. There's no mercy in arithmetic. The numbers never forgive.
Speaker 1:I keep the books because I'm the only one willing to. I tally what others try to forget. I carve the truth into the page where the fire cannot reach. Some think they cannot run it, some think they can trick it, some think they can leave the light on and the door open, and as if hope can rewrite the sum. But hope is not a currency, it is an interest and it compounds until I arrive.
Speaker 1:Hayes thought his columns would save him. He thought that leverage was power Thought. Keeping names in a drawer made him untouchable. But leverage is just proof you're afraid to pay. That's why I took him, not as a punishment but as a balance. The ledger is closed now. His debts are marked, his column ends in red Paid.
Speaker 1:And remember this I do not choose at random. I do not kill for sport. I audit and when I turn the page, if your name is there, the sum is already finished. You will pay in full. I am the Greenbrier and I keep the books, you know, before I get into my reflections and my, you know my monologue. I just I got it. I mean, you guys could probably see it already. It is so much fun doing this. I can't tell you. It's actually, I don't know, in some weird way. It's kind of like therapy, I don't know. But let's go ahead and let's get into my monologue.
Speaker 1:Okay, now you've walked through a motel room where the papers bled right, a ledger burned and a body was left sitting at the desk like he's been doing math at the end of the world. But if you only saw another corpse, you've missed the point. This wasn't about Hayes, this was about you, because, whether you admit it or not, you've got your own ledger. Maybe it's not written in red ink, maybe it's not hidden in a drawer or burned at the edges, but it's there. Every debt, every silence, every promise you never kept, every absence you justified. But here's the point you might have missed Silence isn't empty. It accures interest. Every time you told yourself, I'll deal with that later. Later wrote it down. Every time you hid instead of spoke, circled your name in red. And the day always comes when the books get balanced. And here's the thing. This ledger wasn't about Hayes, it was about the illusion of control. Hayes thought he was the accountant, right, he wasn't. He was just another debtor, pretending the pen was in his hand.
Speaker 1:The burned pages weren't an erasure. Fire can't destroy what you owe, it only changes the format. The debt still waits. The green bar keeps the books wasn't a threat. It was a fact, an audit, a reminder that none of us are clean, no matter how many letters we pretend to close. The music wasn't background Phil Collins, tears for Fears, suppressed Mode. Every track was a timestamp, a record needling, I should say a record needle, cutting through memory. The songs weren't playing for Hayes, they were playing for you.
Speaker 1:And here's how you can apply all this right. Here's where the suspense leaves the page and enters in your life. Ask yourself what ledger am I pretending doesn't exist? Is it a relationship you left without closing? A debt you owe? You know, a debt you told yourself I should say wasn't real because you buried it under excuses, a silence you weaponized instead of an answer. The truth is simple. You can't burn it away, you can't bury it deep enough. The book keeps themselves. So you got two choices Audit yourself now. Open the drawer, pull the names, look at what you owe and wait until someone does it for you. And when the day comes, you won't be ready. Or you end up by waiting. By making one move, one call, one apology, one sentence. That ends the silence. Now, mind you, it won't balance everything, but it'll stop the interest from drowning you.
Speaker 1:So let's go ahead and let's get into the five reflections here. Who do you owe more than money? Think about the people you're carrying weight. I should say, think about the people carrying weight because you choose silence over presence. Who's still paying for what you avoided? Here's an application that you can do this. Okay, write down their name, write what you took, Then decide if your action is repayment or farewell. But make it deliberate. Don't leave it hanging. Okay, I can't make that clear enough. Don't leave it hanging.
Speaker 1:Number two what page in your life did you try to burn? The memory, the failure, the mistake? You thought fire could erase. It didn't. It still bleeds through. Here's how you can apply this. Okay, face it directly, journal the event in detail, then either archive it right, close it respectfully or destroy the artifact, the letter, the photo, the object with intent. Okay, number three what silence in your life is charging interest? Every unreturned message, every door you left open, every conversation you dodged. Those aren't natural and they're not neutral. They grow heavier the longer you wait. Here's how you can apply this. Okay, choose one silence. Break it within 48 hours. No explanation, no grand speech, one sentence delivered. Done, okay.
Speaker 1:Number four whose ledger are you living out of? Hayes thought, remember he that he ran his books right, but he's just playing by someone else's rules? Whose approval, forgiveness or judgment are you still accounting to? Here's how to apply this Identify the name, then write I release myself from owing you anything further. Cut it up, do whatever you want with it. Throw it away, burn it up, do whatever. Don't return to it. Okay, once it's done, it's done. And number five done, it's done. And number five what's written in red ink under your name? Forget money, forget other people. When the ledger turns the page to your page, what does it say? What promises did you make to yourself and fail to deliver? Application? Pick one, not 10, not all one. Pick one, not ten, not all One, and pay it today.
Speaker 1:Okay, and here's my closing thought when did Peshmo's blasphemous rumors played underneath Haze's corpse? It wasn't an accident. I don't want to start any blasphemous rumors, but I think God's got a sick sense of humor. The city has a sick sense of humor too. Right, it'll let you believe you're clean. Let you think the debt died with the fire. Let it pretend you hold the pen until one night. You don't. When the ledger opens to your name. Don't wait for that. Audit yourself. Close the sentences, speak the words, speak the feelings. You're avoided. Pay the debt, because peace of mind doesn't come from pretending the books are balanced. It comes from finally balancing them yourself.
Speaker 1:So, guys, you know what this is honestly like. Said, I'm just so grateful and thankful for every single one of you. I'm going to be honest. It means so much to me that you guys listen to my podcast and that you guys listen to this series and that I get to have a conversation with you guys about this stuff. It's absolutely amazing and I'm just so grateful for that.
Speaker 1:Now, if you want to support this series or really this show, it's so simple, it doesn't cost you anything. It's just two things. One, leave a review for this show Reviews help out. So so, very much. Second way you can do it share this with a family member or a friend. You like this. They're probably going to like it too. All right, that would be absolutely incredible.
Speaker 1:Now, since I talk about your guys' support and that kind of stuff, you know one of the things you guys always do. I get so many messages now from you guys and it just means the world to me. So if you want to have a conversation with me about this series, this episode, fortune other series that are out there 270 plus episodes it's pretty easy. The way you can contact me is three ways. First way is on the description of this podcast. There's a let's chat function. Right, means three ways. First way is on the description of this podcast. There's a let's chat function, right. You click on that. You and I can have a conversation again about this episode, this series, the 270 episodes that are out there and the 14 other series that are out there. Okay, pretty easy.
Speaker 1:Second way is going to be through my email. My email, as always, is anthony at gentsjourneycom, so do not reach the. You know hesitate to reach out to me there. And then, last but not least, you can always go to my Instagram. My Instagram is myjentjourney. So again, guys, thank you, so, so, so, very much for listening today. And remember this you create your reality. Take care.