Ray listened intently to one side of the conversation through the paper-thin walls. His brother spoke plainly, remorselessly. ‘She should die,’ he heard the animated voice declare into his cell phone. ‘She’s a traitor to all mankind. Everything she says is a lie. I wish someone would just kill her. Damn liberals.’
Paul had changed significantly since going to college. No longer was he the gregarious star athlete of a small Kansas town. Instead, he had become an angry, almost belligerent young man. A small fish in a giant pond at the University of Texas, he had channeled his fierce competitiveness into politics. He attended rallies and stood on corners in Austin distributing pamphlets to passerby.
‘It’s about damn time that someone sends a warning shot across her bow. She doesn’t listen. She does whatever she damn well pleases. She won’t be held accountable for her actions, and others protect her blindly because they are deluded enough to think that she’s the future of this country.’ Ray heard his brother pause. A tennis ball began to thump on the wall arrhythmically. ‘They make it look like it’s a walk in the park. You have an opinion, then spin it into it being un-American. You try to do what’s good for the country, and you are a enemy of patriotism. Well, sometimes there’s a place for an eye for an eye,’ he retorted. ‘The tree of liberty must be fertilized by the blood of terrorists.’ The thumping became louder. ‘Terrorists, tyrants, same difference.’
Ray had not just looked up to his older brother; he wanted to be his older brother. The star quarterback, the star pitcher, the prom king, the town hero. But Ray didn’t have the talent. Too skinny and socially awkward, he found his place in running and playing the trumpet. Teachers in the high school almost seemed disappointed when they called ‘Raymond Green’ and saw him sitting quietly in the back of the room trying desperately not to be noticed. Mr. Horner, the gym teacher, commented, ‘You sure you’re Paul’s brother?’ when Ray tried to throw a football. Suffice it to say, Ray avoided throwing anything in front of anyone.
‘Bullshit. She is the stupidest person I’ve ever heard. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. And yet people listen and follow her direction as if she’s reciting the Bible in the voice of Moses.’ The thumping ceased; the floorboards began to creak. Paul had a habit of pacing the room as he became more intense, which caused a strange Doppler effect in the conversation. ‘We’re too damn cowardly to play by their rules. It’s time for us to unite, to stand against them, to shed a little blood.’
Ray felt impassioned by his brother’s speech. He imagined himself marching alongside his brother down a dirt road to meet an evil posse with red bandanas – he had just recently seen Tombstone with his father. He heard himself mimic his brother. ‘You worthless know-nothings; you stupid angry anti-Americans. We’re gonna put you were you shoulda gone a long time ago.’ And he’d pull his six-shooter from the holster and gun them down for the good of the country. Ray glanced out the window and noticed his father had arrived home from work. The front door opened and closed quietly. His father’s boots clicked on each stair as he ascended.
‘I’d do it if I could, but who am I kidding? It’s a pipe dream. They’ll never have balls enough to try character assassination, never mind actual assassination. Nope, she’ll grow more and more powerful. And she’ll do it for American, not knowing that she’s destroying the country. Maybe she’s the antichrist.’
Ray heard his brother’s door open. ‘Paul, I’m home. You wanna talk about that shit, go outside; you know my rules.’ The door closed abruptly.
Ray’s door opened suddenly. His father was annoyed. He commented cryptically, ‘Ray, let me just give you one piece of advice. College ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. Just remember your family, will you?’
‘Yeah, dad. Okay,’ Ray answered, wanting to please his father. The door closed, and his father’s footsteps descended the stairs.
Ray strained to hear his brother’s final words. ‘Yeah, I gotta go. My father…’ His voice faded. ‘… defends her… wish he’d wake up to… almost vice president.’
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Monday, January 3, 2011
Sunday Scribblings (Progress): Not That Guy
Brian grabbed the green ink. Across the front of the black bottle in flowing gold script was the word ‘Emerald’. His older brothers always confiscated the black – ‘Raven’ – and blue – ‘Cobalt’ – leaving him to opt for some other more adventurous hue. He dipped the Waterman pen into the ink bottle and sloppily sucked some of the dark green ink into the miniature tube. The rest he carelessly sprayed on the old wooden table.
Each of the boys had received a Waterman pen from their maternal grandfather at the age of ten. In each case, the pen and accompanying ink had been delivered with a note explaining the family New Years Eve tradition. Dating back to the mid-19th century all members of the Grossman family had recorded their New Year’s resolutions in special journals with ink from a fountain pen. According to his grandfather, the tradition dated back longer – he claims back to the 17th century – but a fire had destroyed the library containing those journals in the small German town from whence the Grossman’s had emigrated.
At the age of 16, Brian suddenly decided that he couldn’t care less about resolutions. They were, as he so eloquently stated to his mother, retarded and a waste of his life. In addition, he claimed he wasn’t going to abide by the resolutions anyway, making them irrelevant and not worth the ink he was using to write them. Brian’s mother was patient as she listened to her indignant son. Each time he complained, she patiently told the same story about her father and her father’s father. They weren’t rich men, she explained, because they understood that resolutions were about being true to one’s self. But they were successful men who lived life fully and had no regrets.
He rolled his eyes as far as they could roll and tried to argue his point anew. When his mother started in again on the reasons for the resolutions, he stormed upstairs with pen, ink, and journal in tow. The door slammed loudly; he fell into his bed and pouted. A short time later, his mother ascended the stairs and knocked at the door to tell him that the family was on their way to celebrate the New Year at her parents’ house. He told her to go away, that he didn’t feel like celebrating. She told him to suit himself but suggested strongly that he write the resolutions. When, after a minute, she heard no response, she walked back down the stairs smiling to herself. She told her husband not to worry about anything. They packed up the lasagna and salad she had made and locked the front door. Within a couple minutes, their Datsun took them off to the other side of town.
Meanwhile Brian decided he wasn’t going spend another minute in the house. He dialed Jim’s number and let it ring twice before hanging up. Then he grabbed his jacket and snuck out the back door in an attempt to avoid the Wassermans, who liked to keep an eye on their neighbors. When he was confident that he had was clear, he took off at a slow jog through his backyard and jumped a small fence into the Brinkley’s yard. He slunk along the side of the house until he came to the front sidewalk. He turned left and started walking slowly. Soon, he noticed a pair of headlights coming up behind him. The car pulled to the side of the road, and the door swung open. He heard a raspy voice – Jim’s voice – tell him to get in. Brian obliged and shut the door.
‘What’s up, man? Long time, no see,’ Jim crooned.
‘You alright, man? You sound terrible. Don’t get that shit on me,’ Brian replied. There were no street lights; he could see only the road in front of them
‘So you ready for tonight? Ready to have some fun?’
‘Yeah, where we goin anways?’
‘To Bill’s. Where else would we go?’
‘Bill’s? Who the hell is Bill?’
‘He’s the owner of the bar on Main. You know, the place we go every friggin night,’ he replied sarcastically.
‘How are we gonna get into a bar? I ain’t gotta fake ID on me.’
‘Since when did you need a fake ID?’ Jim laughed a wheezing laugh that turned into a hacking cough.
‘What the hell’s wrong with you?’ Brian asked, disgusted at his friend’s obvious sickness.
‘The doctor says it’s the smoking; screw him.’ He laugh-coughed again.
Brian wasn’t always the most observant person, but he started to survey his surroundings. The digital greenish blue hue of the clock was the first thing to catch his attention. ‘What kinda clock is that?’
‘What the hell are you talking about? It’s a friggin clock? What’s wrong with you? You’re acting a fool.’
Brian turned toward Jim for the first time and felt something akin to electricity run through him. ‘Who the hell are you?’
‘Alright, Bri, I don’t know what the deal is, but something ain’t right.’
‘You’re tellin me,’ he yelled back. ‘Let me outta this car, asshole.’
‘Whoa, now I know you didn’t just call me a asshole.’
Brian found the handle and pulled but nothing happened. He tried again, to no avail.
‘Power doors, asshole.‘ Jim swerved off the road onto the shoulder. He switched on the overhead light. ‘Alright, Brian, what’s the deal? You doin heroin again?’
Brian looked into the older man’s face and at the white hair that used to be a dark red. He stared at him, saying nothing. Instead, his eyes searched. And somewhere beneath the façade, he recognized someone who used to be his friend.
‘Aww, shit, dude. Tell me you ain’t doin heroin again. You know I can’t be around you if you’re gonna steal my shit.’
‘What are you talking about? I’ve never done heroin,’ Brian retorted. He changed the subject haphazardly, ‘Why are you so old?’
Jim responded indignantly, ‘I’m only six months older than you, asshole. And I don’t look that bad.’ He turned the light off and eased back onto the road.
They sat in silence as Jim turned the car around.
‘Where are we going now?’ Brian asked.
‘I’m taking you home, and then I’m going to the bar to get good and hammered. I think you need to go back into rehab.’
Jim soon passed through Brian’s neighborhood.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I’m bringing you back to your apartment. Maybe it’s better this way anyway. You’ll actually spend some time with your girlfriend and kids.’
‘What girlfriend and kids?’
‘You know, the girlfriend you’ve put in the hospital a couple times, accidentally,’ he exaggerated the final word in a cynical tone, ‘but who stays with you for God knows what reason. And your kid. He’s gotta be like in his mid teens.’
‘No, I want to go home.’
‘That is your home.’
‘No, to my parent’s house. You just passed it.’
‘You sure about that?’
‘Yeah, I’m sure. Or you can let me out right here and I’ll walk.’
‘Alright, Brian,’ he gradually spoke to Brian as if he were a child, ‘okay, I’ll take you home.’
The car pulled up to his parent’s house. Jim disengaged the doors and Brian exited. Without a word he walked up the driveway. Jim drove off into the night to avoid his own wife and kids.
Brian walked behind back and extracted the house key from his pocket. He tried the door, but the key didn’t work. He heard people inside, so he knocked. The door opened; a small child in pajamas sporting a large sponge with eyes and a mouth said hello and waved. Brian awkwardly said hi and climbed the stairs. When he reached the top, of the familiar stairs, he saw a completely unfamiliar sight. In the family room was a huge flat television with all kinds of black boxes sporting digital displays. The furniture and carpeting were all completely different. A few more startled kids looked up at him. Soon, a husky gentleman with salt and pepper hair peeked in from the kitchen.
‘Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch. You have a lot of nerve coming back here, Brian.’
Brian had no problem recognizing the voice of his oldest brother, John.
A plump woman in blue stepped in behind John. ‘Oh my God,’ she exclaimed.
‘Kids, go downstairs.’
‘But dad,’ they replied in unison.
‘Now!’ he bellowed.
They descended the stairs quickly as they had never heard that tone from their father.
‘What are you doing here? You know that no one wants to see you after what you did.’
Brian stood motionless, unable to form words.
‘I see the drugs are still working. I want you to get out of my house now.’
‘Your house?’
‘Yeah, the house I got after you killed mom and dad.’
‘Killed?’
‘Well, they tried to support you through your heroin habit, but they just happened to go bankrupt. Not that you know or care. I wish I could just deck you right here and now.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Brian whispered half to his aged brother, half to himself.
‘You’ve fried every brain cell in that brain, haven’t you? You’re a complete deadbeat. I don’t want you here around my wife and kids. I don’t want you around me. I want you gone now. Get out!’
‘But, John…’
‘Get out. Before I throw you out.’
Brian heard the finality in John’s voice and walked back down the stairs. John followed closely. When Brian was out the door, he heard John virtually slam and lock the door behind him.
Brian walked through the back yard and hopped the fence into what was once the Brinkley’s yard. He took a left and started walking down the sidewalk unsure where he was going. He said to himself aloud, ‘I’m not this guy. I don’t want to be this guy.’
He saw two headlights approaching. The car slowed and the door swung open. ‘Get in. We’re already late.’
Brian stared into the car at the bright red hair of his friend, Jim. He paused a moment and then replied, ‘I don’t think I’m gonna go tonight. I’m gonna go back home.’
Jim tried to coax him for a little while but gave up and drove away.
Brian walked around the block and up to his front door. He entered and walked up to his room. In his journal written in dark green ink was the line, ‘I’m not going to be that guy.’
Brian fell into a deep sleep; he didn’t hear his parents come home. He also didn’t hear his mother peek inside to check on him. She closed the door gently and smiled knowingly as she readied herself for bed.
Each of the boys had received a Waterman pen from their maternal grandfather at the age of ten. In each case, the pen and accompanying ink had been delivered with a note explaining the family New Years Eve tradition. Dating back to the mid-19th century all members of the Grossman family had recorded their New Year’s resolutions in special journals with ink from a fountain pen. According to his grandfather, the tradition dated back longer – he claims back to the 17th century – but a fire had destroyed the library containing those journals in the small German town from whence the Grossman’s had emigrated.
At the age of 16, Brian suddenly decided that he couldn’t care less about resolutions. They were, as he so eloquently stated to his mother, retarded and a waste of his life. In addition, he claimed he wasn’t going to abide by the resolutions anyway, making them irrelevant and not worth the ink he was using to write them. Brian’s mother was patient as she listened to her indignant son. Each time he complained, she patiently told the same story about her father and her father’s father. They weren’t rich men, she explained, because they understood that resolutions were about being true to one’s self. But they were successful men who lived life fully and had no regrets.
He rolled his eyes as far as they could roll and tried to argue his point anew. When his mother started in again on the reasons for the resolutions, he stormed upstairs with pen, ink, and journal in tow. The door slammed loudly; he fell into his bed and pouted. A short time later, his mother ascended the stairs and knocked at the door to tell him that the family was on their way to celebrate the New Year at her parents’ house. He told her to go away, that he didn’t feel like celebrating. She told him to suit himself but suggested strongly that he write the resolutions. When, after a minute, she heard no response, she walked back down the stairs smiling to herself. She told her husband not to worry about anything. They packed up the lasagna and salad she had made and locked the front door. Within a couple minutes, their Datsun took them off to the other side of town.
Meanwhile Brian decided he wasn’t going spend another minute in the house. He dialed Jim’s number and let it ring twice before hanging up. Then he grabbed his jacket and snuck out the back door in an attempt to avoid the Wassermans, who liked to keep an eye on their neighbors. When he was confident that he had was clear, he took off at a slow jog through his backyard and jumped a small fence into the Brinkley’s yard. He slunk along the side of the house until he came to the front sidewalk. He turned left and started walking slowly. Soon, he noticed a pair of headlights coming up behind him. The car pulled to the side of the road, and the door swung open. He heard a raspy voice – Jim’s voice – tell him to get in. Brian obliged and shut the door.
‘What’s up, man? Long time, no see,’ Jim crooned.
‘You alright, man? You sound terrible. Don’t get that shit on me,’ Brian replied. There were no street lights; he could see only the road in front of them
‘So you ready for tonight? Ready to have some fun?’
‘Yeah, where we goin anways?’
‘To Bill’s. Where else would we go?’
‘Bill’s? Who the hell is Bill?’
‘He’s the owner of the bar on Main. You know, the place we go every friggin night,’ he replied sarcastically.
‘How are we gonna get into a bar? I ain’t gotta fake ID on me.’
‘Since when did you need a fake ID?’ Jim laughed a wheezing laugh that turned into a hacking cough.
‘What the hell’s wrong with you?’ Brian asked, disgusted at his friend’s obvious sickness.
‘The doctor says it’s the smoking; screw him.’ He laugh-coughed again.
Brian wasn’t always the most observant person, but he started to survey his surroundings. The digital greenish blue hue of the clock was the first thing to catch his attention. ‘What kinda clock is that?’
‘What the hell are you talking about? It’s a friggin clock? What’s wrong with you? You’re acting a fool.’
Brian turned toward Jim for the first time and felt something akin to electricity run through him. ‘Who the hell are you?’
‘Alright, Bri, I don’t know what the deal is, but something ain’t right.’
‘You’re tellin me,’ he yelled back. ‘Let me outta this car, asshole.’
‘Whoa, now I know you didn’t just call me a asshole.’
Brian found the handle and pulled but nothing happened. He tried again, to no avail.
‘Power doors, asshole.‘ Jim swerved off the road onto the shoulder. He switched on the overhead light. ‘Alright, Brian, what’s the deal? You doin heroin again?’
Brian looked into the older man’s face and at the white hair that used to be a dark red. He stared at him, saying nothing. Instead, his eyes searched. And somewhere beneath the façade, he recognized someone who used to be his friend.
‘Aww, shit, dude. Tell me you ain’t doin heroin again. You know I can’t be around you if you’re gonna steal my shit.’
‘What are you talking about? I’ve never done heroin,’ Brian retorted. He changed the subject haphazardly, ‘Why are you so old?’
Jim responded indignantly, ‘I’m only six months older than you, asshole. And I don’t look that bad.’ He turned the light off and eased back onto the road.
They sat in silence as Jim turned the car around.
‘Where are we going now?’ Brian asked.
‘I’m taking you home, and then I’m going to the bar to get good and hammered. I think you need to go back into rehab.’
Jim soon passed through Brian’s neighborhood.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I’m bringing you back to your apartment. Maybe it’s better this way anyway. You’ll actually spend some time with your girlfriend and kids.’
‘What girlfriend and kids?’
‘You know, the girlfriend you’ve put in the hospital a couple times, accidentally,’ he exaggerated the final word in a cynical tone, ‘but who stays with you for God knows what reason. And your kid. He’s gotta be like in his mid teens.’
‘No, I want to go home.’
‘That is your home.’
‘No, to my parent’s house. You just passed it.’
‘You sure about that?’
‘Yeah, I’m sure. Or you can let me out right here and I’ll walk.’
‘Alright, Brian,’ he gradually spoke to Brian as if he were a child, ‘okay, I’ll take you home.’
The car pulled up to his parent’s house. Jim disengaged the doors and Brian exited. Without a word he walked up the driveway. Jim drove off into the night to avoid his own wife and kids.
Brian walked behind back and extracted the house key from his pocket. He tried the door, but the key didn’t work. He heard people inside, so he knocked. The door opened; a small child in pajamas sporting a large sponge with eyes and a mouth said hello and waved. Brian awkwardly said hi and climbed the stairs. When he reached the top, of the familiar stairs, he saw a completely unfamiliar sight. In the family room was a huge flat television with all kinds of black boxes sporting digital displays. The furniture and carpeting were all completely different. A few more startled kids looked up at him. Soon, a husky gentleman with salt and pepper hair peeked in from the kitchen.
‘Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch. You have a lot of nerve coming back here, Brian.’
Brian had no problem recognizing the voice of his oldest brother, John.
A plump woman in blue stepped in behind John. ‘Oh my God,’ she exclaimed.
‘Kids, go downstairs.’
‘But dad,’ they replied in unison.
‘Now!’ he bellowed.
They descended the stairs quickly as they had never heard that tone from their father.
‘What are you doing here? You know that no one wants to see you after what you did.’
Brian stood motionless, unable to form words.
‘I see the drugs are still working. I want you to get out of my house now.’
‘Your house?’
‘Yeah, the house I got after you killed mom and dad.’
‘Killed?’
‘Well, they tried to support you through your heroin habit, but they just happened to go bankrupt. Not that you know or care. I wish I could just deck you right here and now.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Brian whispered half to his aged brother, half to himself.
‘You’ve fried every brain cell in that brain, haven’t you? You’re a complete deadbeat. I don’t want you here around my wife and kids. I don’t want you around me. I want you gone now. Get out!’
‘But, John…’
‘Get out. Before I throw you out.’
Brian heard the finality in John’s voice and walked back down the stairs. John followed closely. When Brian was out the door, he heard John virtually slam and lock the door behind him.
Brian walked through the back yard and hopped the fence into what was once the Brinkley’s yard. He took a left and started walking down the sidewalk unsure where he was going. He said to himself aloud, ‘I’m not this guy. I don’t want to be this guy.’
He saw two headlights approaching. The car slowed and the door swung open. ‘Get in. We’re already late.’
Brian stared into the car at the bright red hair of his friend, Jim. He paused a moment and then replied, ‘I don’t think I’m gonna go tonight. I’m gonna go back home.’
Jim tried to coax him for a little while but gave up and drove away.
Brian walked around the block and up to his front door. He entered and walked up to his room. In his journal written in dark green ink was the line, ‘I’m not going to be that guy.’
Brian fell into a deep sleep; he didn’t hear his parents come home. He also didn’t hear his mother peek inside to check on him. She closed the door gently and smiled knowingly as she readied herself for bed.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Poetricity: New Years Haiku
Light blue eyes drooping,
Another New Year passes.
She barely made it.
My resolution:
Focus on priorities.
Let’s have some ice cream.
It was just Orange
Before sponsors took over.
Now, it’s Discover.
Another New Year passes.
She barely made it.
My resolution:
Focus on priorities.
Let’s have some ice cream.
It was just Orange
Before sponsors took over.
Now, it’s Discover.
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