Brother’s Grim
When we were children, my brother would like to play this game where he would make me look down the barrel of a toy gun. And he’d say “End ‘a the line, part-ner.”
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“I think it’s the move, that’s all. What do we have left here? You can’t get over Susan. I don’t want to be in the same city as Cheryl. Our jobs are dead-end with a capitol D. And Sven says he loves it down in Austin. It’s got everything New York has except better. What do we have to lose?”
I looked at my brother with the same blank expression I looked down the barrel of the toy gun. “One, our jobs are not dead-end. Two, I wouldn’t trust Sven’s recommendation on a Chinese take-out joint. And three, our whole lives are here. I think you’ve been overthinking this whole thing. Or underthinking it, I can’t tell.”
“No man, I think you’re not thinking at all. And look, I know it doesn’t do you much good, but Sven’s got an in for me at the long-haul he’s working at. As many hours as I want and the bennies are good. I’m sure they’ve got decent security work down there too. At the very least you could look into it.”
I said nothing. Mostly because we had had this conversation so many times before, but also because he chose to bring up the trucking, which he was usually smart enough not to do.
“Just give it a real thought for once. Really, I think this city and us have run its course.”
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When we were children, my brother would like to play this game where he would make me look down the barrel of a toy gun. And he’d say “End ‘a the line, part-ner.” And I’d dare him to pull the trigger. And every time I dared him, he’d get this look on his face and I’d know he didn’t have it in him.
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“Well then why don’t you then! Go on then! Off to Texas with ya! But don’t expect me to follow you down into that pit, ‘cause I know trouble when I smell it and I smell it God damn it!”
Paul was obnoxiously calm as my face turned hot. “I feel bad for you, Bastion. I really do. Not just because you’ve gotta live with the shame of coming up shy on rent, especially knowing that you skipped—”
“Don’t start on that again Pauly, I swear to God!”
He waited a beat, letting me feel extra embarrassed under my pulsating face. “Knowing that you skipped a weekend of work to go spin ‘em down in Atlantic City. I feel extra bad because you can’t see an end when it's staring you in the face.”
“There’s ten million people in this city. Millions of jobs. Millions of apartments. Millions upon millions of opportunities. I miss rent once—once!—
“This is not the first time.”
I breezed past that remark, “and you’re acting like I can’t pick up an extra couple to pay you back for this month’s rent.”
A silence came over the kitchen, the blood pumping through my forehead subsiding some.
“You hear back about that job at the Tower?”
He had to. He just had to ask about the job at the Tower at a time like this. I let the air between us answer for me.
He grabbed his keys and wallet and left. The next day when I came back from work most of his stuff was gone, except for some old clothes and any bigger items he couldn’t fit in the back of his car.
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When we were children, my brother would like to play this game where he would make me look down the barrel of a toy gun. And he’d say “End ‘a the line, part-ner.” And I’d dare him to pull the trigger. And every time I dared him, he’d get this look on his face and I’d know he didn’t have it in him. Until one day he looked too steady in the face of my goading, and I knew I had pushed him too far. Popped a pellet right in my eye. Doctors said there wasn’t a chance in the world to save it.
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I still hear from my brother from time-to-time. He likes to send me postcards, as if there aren’t better ways to reach me. If what he says is the truth, everything's going pretty well for him out in Texas. There seems to be a promotion in every second or third postcard. He’s not even driving the trucks anymore, he’s running a fleet from a desk. Sounds like he found himself a nice girl out there, too. Sometimes I think about sending him a postcard back, but I’m not sure what I’d write and all the postcards I find look so tacky and generic, nothing he hasn’t seen with his own two eyes.
I’m not doing too bad myself. I got a different job doing security at a different highrise. I’m sending around my application again, though. I’m trying not to get my hopes too high, but I’ve been looking for a job with mobility, maybe a place where I could manage other security officers. But even if I can’t swing that, things ain’t too bad. I had to move in with a buddy just down the block from where me and Pauly used to rent, but it's nice being able to stay in the same neighborhood. I get to go to all the old joints, get my food, see my people.
I wonder if Pauly ever misses all that.
If he ever swung back through town, he never told me about it. And I think he would have.
The last postcard he sent was of some grotto called Hamilton Pool Preserve. A little blurb on the postcard said the thing formed when an underground river’s dome collapsed, revealing the pool beneath. On the back he didn’t write a single word.