Ch. 52: Like Hell You Are

A memory.
Brothers are meant to wage war on each other. This, as they say, is the nature of the beast. It’s a constant struggle to see who will come out on top, who among the children can win the favor of doting Mommy and silent Daddy. After all, if one did not have to vie for the affections of a loved one, then where’s the purpose in the chase, or the fight? Gone. Utterly out the window. Abandoned on a desert island with love it’s only occupant (I know, I know, that means it isn’t deserted but really, love isn’t really, and it’s just a chemical reaction we’ve come to believe as real). So thus, the wars must be waged. Daddy favors one side, then the other. Mommy does the same. And in a house of three boys, well, the sides team up differently everyday. At least, that’s what we’d all like to believe. The oldest versus the younger ones, the middle versus the oldest and youngest, the youngest versus the middle and oldest, etc etc. ad nausea. It wasn’t like that in our home though. Not at all. It was always one side versus five. Me against them and by them I mean all of them. Mommy, Daddy, Malcolm and Joe. That is, at least, until the day Joe passed away.

Joe is a bit of the family secrets that shall probably always remain a secret. No one really knows what happens (and those who do aren’t saying), but the general consensus is Joe passed away in his sleep late one summer night. I, of course, was here in the Jungle; far enough away the blame could never be placed on me (though I suspect it would be if they could find a way). No one knew why, even the Doctors (and there was a horde of Doctors) couldn’t quite understand it. Was it the heart murmur? No. The drinking? Possible. The tobacco? Not really. Every excuse was met with some sort of opposition. It was sad really. No one could pinpoint it at all. My Father gave the best excuse - his goddamn stubbornness.

Whatever the reason may be, Joe was dead, that was all anyone really had to understand. It broke my Father, quite visibly in fact, to see his youngest (and probably the pride of his life) dead at the ripe age of twenty-three. “Should have been you,” I remember him saying to me when I was home for the funeral. “Should have been you. With all your drugs, and your sex, and your goddamn queerness, you should have been the first to go.”

I looked up. “Thanks, Pop,” I smiled. “I love you too.”

My Father gave me his typical go to fucking hell you goddamn queer stare and dove further into his beer. I smiled broader. If he was this bad already, tomorrow, at the actual funeral, things would be much worse. I had a surprise for the family.

“Bad idea, man. Very bad idea.”

“Whatever could you mean, dear brother,” I smiled. “It’s not like it’s a family secret anymore. I mean, you handled that years ago.”

“At Joe’s funeral? I mean, you know I don’t care what you do with… with… with what ever his name is…”

“Shannon.”

“With Shannon. But really? Bringing him to the funeral?”

“Why not, Malcolm? He came all this way. Why not let him meet the family?”

“It’s just not right. It’s not right.”

I smiled. “I don’t care about right anymore. See you tomorrow.”

I got up to leave. Malcolm grabbed my hand. “Please.” I could hear the pain in his voice. “Don’t.”

I shook off Malcolm’s grip. “I’ll consider it.”

The day of the funeral was rainy. I should have expected that, I mean, after all, Joe would have wanted it that way. “So this is your baby brother,” Shannon asked me as he adjusted his tie.

“Yes. The little bastard of the family. He’s the milkman child, did you know that?” Shannon turned to me in disbelief. “Kidding. If anyone’s the milkman’s child it’s me.” Shannon laughed. “Seriously. I look nothing like my Mother. Or Father. I’m some strange hybrid of disaster I tell you.” Shannon laughed some more. “Really. It’s a big family secret. No one’s supposed to know and if you mention it they all play deaf, dumb and blind.”

“You’re so cute when you’re trying to convince me of something.” Shannon placed a light kiss on my check. “Are you sure this is okay?”

I eye the outfit. “Completely sure. You look like a handsome little gentleman.
Shannon giggled. “Not this silly. I know this looks good, I know my fashion. I meant me. Coming to the funeral?”

I smile (a bit too broadly perhaps). “Completely. Come here.” I kiss Shannon hard on the lips, my way of reassuring him. “Are you ready?” He shrugs. “Let’s go.”

We arrived at the funeral about ten minutes into the service. I’d planned it this way. I wasn’t going to explode the whole Shannon-and-I-are-dating-and-plan-to-spend-the-rest-of-our-lives-together thing on them at the start, which would have stolen Joe’s thunder much too soon. No, I planned to spring it on them at the reception afterwards. I wanted to watch my Mother turn the color of a sheet and my Father to turn the color of a bordello. I mean, after all, if you’re going to wage war, if you’re really going to start trouble, it’s best to be the first one to throw the bomb.

We walked into the parlor, my ears being bombarded by some girl (I’m guessing someone Joe dated) singing a horrendous country song about loving and never letting someone go. I resisted the urge to laugh. Shannon leaned over to me as we took seats in the back pew, “Please tell me that’s not the only type of music in this city.” I laughed a bit and shook my head no. “Thank God. I was fearful I was going to puke the rest of the time I’m here.” I gripped his hand. He smiled.

The funeral felt like it went on for ages. My Father spoke, my Mother spoke, Malcolm spoke, I think almost everyone in the Godforsaken town of Clear Spring spoke about what an asset Joe was to the community. I, for my part, just sat in the back and smiled. I smiled that little knowing smile of a disaster about to befall everyone around me. Shannon looked at me.

“Tiger?”

“Yeah.”

“Why are you smiling?”

I turned to look at him. “I don’t know, Shannon,” I lied. I turned back and saw the pallbearers, a disjointed disgusting group of Joe’s closest friends, rise and begin to carry the casket out. “About fucking time,” I muttered. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“To say hi to Mommy Dearest.”

Shannon went white as a fresh store bought Fruit of a Loom shirt. “Now?” I nodded and grabbed his hand. He resisted but after one final pull trotted forward.

Mother was standing in the midst of relatives, all of the trying to comfort the battleaxe. I sauntered my way through and hugged her. “I’m so sorry, Mom,” I said.

“Like hell you are,” she whispered. “Like hell you are.”

Ch. 51: The Unrealness of Phone Calls

I reach the apartment well past dark. I open the door and the smell of a life wasted immediately hits me, crippling me to my knees and forcing me to crawl into the clinically dressed living room. The light on my answering machine blinks an evil red eye at me, shining against the darkness of the room. I stare at it, waiting in some vain hope that the damn thing might actually go away on its own. The eye toys with me though, almost laughing at my stupidity. Carefully, with hands shaking, I reach over and tap the button. The machine whirls and clicks and sputters, dropping a voice to life.

“Hey,” said the youthful voice. “It’s me, Dylan, I was just calling to umm… to umm… well to check up on you and see how you’re doing. You sounded, like, really scared the last time we talked. I know what you’re thinking. I’m just a kid. But you know, I can… I can help you… if you need it that is. Anyway, give me a call or something okay? Let me know what’s happening. Later.”

Beep.

“Son,” strong, stern, altogether unreal. “This is your Mother.” As if I had to be told, thank you for reminding me. “I hope that Malcolm has reached you by now.” He had. “And that you know what’s going on.” I do. “You are planning to attend?” I guess. “Oh, and don’t bring anyone with you this time. This is a family affair; it’s not a place for you to force your latest opinion on anyone.” Thanks, Mom. “Call us when you arrive.” Click.

Beep.

“Hey, it’s Malcolm. I got the ticket. You’re flying out tonight on the last flight to Houston at about oh…” I can hear Malcolm rummage through some papers. “At about 11:15 p.m. The flight should land at about 1:30 in the morning and I’ll meet you there. If you can’t make it, please, call me. I’m counting on you. Don’t let me down.” Click.

Beep.

The little machine announces that the messages have all gone away. I relax for the first time since early that morning and pour myself a couple of fingers of Crown into a dirty glass. I down the glass in almost one gulp and lay my head back. It was only 7:30; I had some time to kill.

Ch. 50: No Home

Confession: I have no home.

In my teenage years I learned very quickly that the term home was relative. It was just a word people flung around to describe a place or a feeling. Sadly, for me, both of these things escaped me. Home contained no warm and fuzzy feeling, if anything; it contained a sense of dread. For many, home should be where they feel the most comfortable, and in Clear Spring, Texas, I was far from comfortable. I felt trapped, as if the town itself would kill me. I labored there for eighteen years and on the morning after my eighteenth birthday, I packed my bags and left with the intent of never being heard from again. I left on a Silver Eagle headed for the Concrete Jungle, determined to make my name and fame here. I was greeted with more disappointment and heartache. Sure, I got a book or two published, I fell in love with Shannon and was dismissed, I even made a few friends; but the stone walls and steel trees feel like a glaring prison cell.

I’m its only captive.

I’ve often heard say that home is where the heart is. If this is true then my home is nothing more then a wooden box buried six feet beneath the concrete. My heart left the day they buried the Angel away. My heart still lies in the cold unfeeling earth next to her, beating a siren song even the angels refuse to hear. It’s trapped there, like I am trapped here, and it seems we will never be together. The thing about closure, the thing no one really gets is this: Closure never happens. Closure is a gimmick invented by the Shrinks and Liars of the world to ease the hardening of the heart. With closure comes completeness they say. I laugh. With closure comes the end of you as you know you. It means giving up anything and everything you believed in up to that point. Perhaps this is why I have no home, because I so readily refuse closure. If it is, then I’m a worse monster then I originally thought or planned. Perhaps it is for the best that I have no home. I mean, who will miss me then when I go? I’ll just be another ghost in the ripples of time.

Ch. 49: Going Home

I awaken from the memory somewhere in the Concrete Jungle. The Steel Trees shine a dim light and I know it is time for me to do the unthinkable. I take my cell phone from my pocket and proceed to dial Malcolm. The phone clicks and buzzes, pulsing with a life of its own, until Malcolm’s voice comes across. I don’t say much, matter of fact my voice is barely above audible. I do something I swore I would never do. “Get me a ticket; I’ll be home by tomorrow.”

And that is that.

Ch. 48: Ghosts Fill My Unforgettable Past

Confession: Ghosts fill my unforgettable past.

It’s a summer day and I’m six years old or somewhere near there. I’ve spent the morning playing with Legos and Transformers, trying to keep my mind off the events taking place late this muggy afternoon. Mother comes to the room with her usual look of self satisfaction and reminds me I need to start getting ready. I nod and begin to put the toys away. Strangely, I feel grown-up as I place each toy where it belongs and organize the room into something out of a movie. I’m generally okay until I come to the last toy. Lovingly, I hold on to it, turning it over in my hands. It was the last gift I received from her before the sickness invaded her body. She had bought it for me and only me, and it was all that remained of her here in my room. It wasn’t much, just a tiny changing robot, but it meant the world to me that day. It was all I had of her. Well, the toy and my memories.

I stand for several moments in front of the closet, taking precious time to decide what outfit to wear that afternoon. It had to be perfect. For her. I chose a pink shirt, her favorite color, and laid it on my bed next to a pair of black slacks and matching suit coat. I smile a bit. She’d be proud to know I did this all by myself. After a brief shower, I slowly put on the outfit, taking care to make sure it doesn’t wrinkle. My Mother smiles from the hallway, “Don’t you look handsome,” she says.

I nod. “For her.”

“I know,” she says, her face screwing u with a hint of pain.

“Why do people die,” I ask as I turn to her.

My Mother freezes. “Well…,” she begins, “well, sometimes it’s time for them to go home to be with God.”

“But they are home.”

“No, no.” My Mother tires to hold me but I pull away. Her touch never felt as good as the Angel’s. “God needed her back,” my Mother says as she lights a cigarette, exhaling cancer into my room.

“What if I needed her?” I wipe smoke and tears from my eyes.

My Mother shrugs. “God is more important.” She turns her back to me. “Go wash your face, child, it’s almost time to go.”

Malcolm and Joe are already in the Death Machine waiting by the time I finish washing my face. I notice their laps are loaded down with board games and that they aren’t dressed up. For some reason this makes me feel important. I’m the only one old enough, apparently, to go to the funeral. I smile a bit. She would be proud to know that out of all of us, my Mother and Father chose me to go. My Father is sitting in the front seat, behind the wheel, looking nervous. “Are you sure we should do this?”

“Yes,” my Mother says with a face made of stone. “He’s too young.”

“But like this?”

“How else are we supposed to do it?” My Father shrugs and starts the Death Machine headed down the road. The late evening sunlight dances across the windshield and illuminates the inside of the Machine in an eerie way. Inside the pit of my stomach I feel something isn’t right, but I’m unsure of how to vocalize this. Any word from the child in the backseat and my Father may possibly snap. I sit there, numbly, staring at hands too small to hold the world.

“We’re just going to drop the boys off,” my Father reassures me, “and then we’ll go over to the funeral home, okay?”

“Yes sir.” My Mother continues to smile her smug little smile.

We arrive at a friend of the family and the boys bounce out of the car. Malcolm, ever the tease, thrusts his head back inside the Machine. “They’re going to leave you here. I overheard them this morning.”

“No, they’re not. You heard Dad.”

Malcolm laughs. “Ok.” He turns away and bounds into the house, shoving Joe along the way. Outside, in front of the car, my Father and Mother are having a heated debate. Inside the steel Death Machine I can’t hear a single word, but I can tell my Father isn’t pleased. My Mother, for her part, holds her ground until my Father caves. The Death Machine’s door flies open and I’m practically ripped from the seat by the hands of my Father.

“This is what you want isn’t it,” my Father practically screams. “Great fucking way to teach the kid.”

“We’ve discussed this.”

“We didn’t. You decided. It’s…”

“It doesn’t matter.” My Mother turns to look at me, fire brimming behind her eyes. “You’re staying here.”

“But I -”

“I’m sorry,” she lies, “but you’re too young. It’s not right.” My Father has already climbed into the Death Machine and started the engine. It roars to life, drowning out my screams. She turns and goes, leaving me standing there in the driveway, tears pouring like a summer shower.

Ch. 47: The Wages of the Mirror

Life moves at a rapid pace, especially here in the Jungle. One day you’re on top of the world, the king of the castle, guardian of the new domain. A year ago that was me, leading the charge into a new frontier in writing, in relationship, well, in everything. Now, as I stare in the mirror in some dingy bathroom deep in the Great Park, I realize I’m no better then the homeless Ants I shove from side to side as I scurry through my day. It’s not really a fatalistic view. No, in reality it’s more of a realistic view of how one survives life in the Jungle. The Jungle is literally Dog eating Dog, Ant triumphing over Ant. Today, at this moment, I am neither. I’m the scum the other Ants scrub off their shoes on dirty floor mats outside broken apartments. Actually, I’m probably a bit lower then that.

I stare at the empty hollow face that stares back at me. My hands run over the sunken in cheekbones, my eyes stare at eyes exposed and dying. My tongue slithers over teeth stained a cowardly yellow, chipped and frayed at the gums. I have become the monster I feared. I have become him. It’s funny, but I realize as I stare into the void before me, that going home will be the blessing I’ve been seeking. The Dead welcoming home the Dead, in a way it’s poetic. It would be more so if it wasn’t so close to the truth. I laugh, loud enough to disturb the slumber of the man in the stall. The world is nothing to me, I get this, I understand this, and most importantly, I know I am nothing to the world. It’s funny how these things ultimately work out, how all the little pieces fall into place in the twisting of a moment. Fate is indeed a demanding mistress. She has demanded blood, and the wages have been paid. But the question remains, by whom?

I stare deeper into the mirror, resigning myself to the fact that my past is filled with ghosts. Somber, quiet beings watching my every move and dissect it quietly amongst themselves. Some belong to the realm of the dead, while others are born from the wounds still oozing with hints of life. The call from Malcolm, the one proclaiming my father was no longer part of this mortal world, opened fresh wounds, ones I long thought closed but were still alive screaming with spirits and blood.

Ch. 46 What Are You Doing New Year's Eve?

“Cold.” It was more a statement then a question, but judging from the voice, there was at least a hint of concern. I vaguely open my bleary eyes to see the echoing passage ways of the Jungle looming beneath me. I try hard, harder then I’ve tried recently, to make sense of my surroundings. My semi-nude body only feels the piercing wind of Jack Frost as I lean over the edge of the Hunter’s apartment’s balcony. In the near distance, most likely behind me, I can hear the sounds of people drinking and celebrating, and in my distilled drug-fueled mind, I believe they are laughing at my literalism. You see, it’s the same people inside who told me that I should harden my heart, turn myself into a cold, pitiful creature, mold my heart into granite stone, and jade myself to a green so green it would make the grass envious.
Naturally, I took them literally.

I thrust past the joyous crowd and burst into the bitter January air. I wanted, no needed, to know how it felt to be cold, to become so numb I no longer felt anything for anyone, much less myself. Maybe I’m too literal, but the cold doesn’t suit me. Something inside of me, as I learned that night, is too much alive to become cold, but, well, I can see the benefits in having no feelings.

In the glamorously lit room just beyond the balcony, laughter expels into the open air, forced out by swirling drinks clinking in celebratory responses. I’m not a part of this joke. I lift my glass anyway, toasting the frivolity. I toss the drink back, but miss and send the fragile glass hurling towards the streets below. I watch from some six or seven stories up as the glass hurtles to the concrete below and smashes. The glass explodes into tiny particles, reflecting in the soft light of the steel trees. I shake my head, well aware of the fact that the glass is merely an extension of me. I’m falling and I can’t stop.

The peels of laughter once again catch my attention and I turn my numbing body back towards the door, inching close to maybe catch just a glimpse of what the Ants laugh at. Secretly, I long to join them, but I know I can’t. My otherness is too great and too well engrained into the nature of my being. Otherness is what brought me outside. Otherness is what sent the glass falling. Otherness is what brought Shannon and me to an end. Otherness is feeling and I do far too much of it.

Seconds become the dinner of the minutes and in turn the minutes feed the hours, and the hours gorge themselves until time is beyond the realm of my understanding. Jack continues to nip at my skin, though I can barely feel his icy touch and my mind is wrapping around the idea that I may be dangerously close to a case of frostbite. This really doesn’t concern me, because, well, I’ve already decided that frostbite would be another form of death I could somehow conquer and destroy. I’ve become a master at avoiding death, outrunning it before it can strike me down. I bet even the Reaper admires my ability to avoid his touch. The Devil, on the other hand, is merely letting me run until I come face to face with him. This is something I can’t escape, and yet I try. Sadly, I try.

Hatcher slides outside, holding himself against the cold and desperately tries to find his cigarettes. He turns to face me as I titter dangerously close to falling over the rail. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Trying to become cold,” I fling at him with a mockery of a smile.

“Well, that’s a hell of a way to do it.”

“Well, you know me Hatch, it’s the only way I’ll understand it.” Hatcher’s eyes swell. “Don’t worry about little ole me, Hunter. I’m fine. I’m practically use to the cold now. I can’t even feel my fingers at the moment. See?” I hold my hand out for him to inspect.

“You need help. I’m calling…”

“Help is for the weak. I don’t need anything.”

“I’m not so sure on that.” Hatcher knows what’s coming as well as I do. He calls it the “push.” It’s the great shoving of those who care. The “push” works like this, you shove away everyone who loves or cares about you so that you feel abandoned, lost and alone. It’s the greatest excuse for not connecting. Hatcher knows “the push” is coming soon and gives me one final look. I akin it to something close to helplessness. I turn away, staring at the street below. “He’s not worth it, you know?”

“Fuck off.”