Bad Brother

       He was terrible until the day he died. Every time we got together he would spend most of the day describing how great his new job at the marshmallow factory was or how many donuts he could do around the buoys at the lake before vomiting. Six. It was no mystery that some of it was going to come up free marshmallows. I'd often think that maybe I'm the jerk for not being happier for him. Maybe it was just because I was so miserable that his news would always come across as arrogance. Which ever it was, he had no idea how much I'd always wanted to be him. And he was painfully unaware that I'd been on unemployment since I was laid off from my entry-level position at the sanitation department. You'd think trash-picking would be one industry untouched by the recession.

The day he died I was especially depressed after my cat was found by my neighbor at the bottom of their pool. I sat there wondering how I was supposed to dispose of my soggy friend when a knock brought me to the front door. A man in a trench coat was there facing the other way. Who does that? He didn't turn around until after l said hello and I recognized him as my brother's friend Douglas. Douglas was a weirdo. He was a bad influence on my brother I thought, or maybe it was the other way around. Either way I was not excited to see him or welcome him in to my death odorous home.

"What died in here?" he said.

"My cat. Well, it died next door. In the pool." I replied.

He got all serious after that, asking about my criminal record and when was the last time I traveled abroad. I told him as little as possible but my life had been so boring for the last couple months I went along with his strange questions longer than I'd like to admit. At a certain point though I excused myself to use the toilet and from there called my brother to see why Douglas had paid me an unwanted visit. He answered by telling me a story about a witch that cursed a small village in Norway.

"That village was racist." I said.

He agreed and told me that the meaning of this story was all that kept him from certain death. I didn't understand but my brother only lies in person so I knew it was true. Six hours later we met in the woods behind an abandoned bank our mother used to pay "outrageous fees" to years ago.

"It's definitely mafia but I'm bad with accents so I don't know." he said.

We rented a car and I drove all day trying to understand their stupid riddle while he slept for the first time in days. We had some great conversations on that trip before they caught up with us. After all these years I thought, finally a fond memory.

Dante Defeats Truman

      It was a colder morning than usual in Los Angeles and Dante felt every shiver of it. His well worn jacket was worthless in the wind and all of the good spots were taken while he made his way back hours later than usual to the familiar neighborhood of stone and glass. He'd spent the last month in and out of the Korean church on the corner of 4th and New Hampshire and though he couldn't understand a word that was said he liked the music so much he knew the drinking had to stop. Dante would sit quietly in the back away from everyone else so as not to offend their sense of smell and from there saw time after time how Jack and Johnny would coax his friends to be a distraction to the congregation. More than once he aided the staff in ejecting the troublemakers when it was time and even Pastor Nam began to recognize Dante as part of their body.

A sharply dressed usher came up to him after and thanked him for his service.

"Please feel welcome here. We have a food share program you may benefit from." he said.

Dante could not understand his english and responded in Slovene.

"Ubil sem zlobenega moža." 

Months ago it wouldn't have mattered. He could've done the thing and forgotten it before morning. But months ago maybe he wouldn't have done it at all. He had the benefit of a clearer mind now and though the years of abuse had taken their toll on his once stalwart body his mind bounced back with stirring agility. He had regrets and fears that hadn't plagued him since Detroit and the summer his wife left him. The world he'd stacked up only to see it fall at his own hand was again visible through the glaze of addiction that banished him to the streets sixteen years ago. 

This was it! he thought. My villain. Satan my Satan. But there was a window of course, he could not hold out forever to find a replacement. The medication was so effective that he'd previously doubted anything else could take it's place, but Pastor Nam would know.

For the first time in his life Dante entered the church with a goal in mind. He must find a replacement for the alcohol. The police would find him someday. He would be punished and rightfully so. He'd done the deed in cold blood and left behind a footprint to prove it. Until they could catch him he would share the love he'd found in Christ and while he knew he could not stop the evil of this world he could participate in the redemption of it.

"Prayer." said Nam.

Dante knew this word. He didn't understand it but if he ever learned English he would understand it less. Nam prayed with him for forgiveness, not because he knew what Dante had done but because Nam was a killer too.

Traffic Is Getting Worse

      The smell of gasoline filled his lungs as he sat in traffic on the ten. There was a brief moment when he considered shifting into neutral and cutting the motor so he could climb down and step off the highway for a breath of fresh air. The honking behind was no match anymore for his throbbing left leg so he did throw it in neutral and relaxed long enough to let the 14 passenger van merge. When their racket finally compelled him to lean back on the clutch and fill the gap he'd brought the line forward by six feet.

The next thing he could remember was walking down a broken sidewalk in the quaint downtown Riverside in search of a record store. A beautiful woman walked a skinny rat dog in his direction and he asked her if he could buy the animal.

"Excuse me?" she said.

"How much do you want for the dog?"

She scooped the ragged mutt into her arms and he could see their hairs stand up unattractively backlit in the sun. It was important for him to recognize ugliness in something beautiful. This restrained his predatory desires.

"I don't have cash though."

"I can't sell Rascal." she cooed.

He reached forward slowly to take the dog and she responded by carefully placing it in his hands.

"Do you know a place that will take a card?" he said.

They walked toward the main strip and passed an old fountain that had long since dried up. He asked her about the town and if they were having an election any time soon. She seemed to be foolishly entertained by his non-sequitur line of questioning and what woman wouldn't be  intrigued by the mystery of a man who withheld any personal details?

"Do you live around here?" she asked as they passed a modern fountain full of water and stamped from a factory mold.

"I've been thinking about moving here." he said.

He sat down with the dog on the edge of the fountain and playfully held it over the water.

"He could use a bath." he said.

She reached for the bony animal and he brought it back from the edge as she laughed so naively it almost broke his heart.

Then it was morning and he could hear her in the shower. He could never relate to the characters in movies who had the discipline to wake before their partner and sneak out without them noticing so this was the alternative. He climbed down steps forgotten in the drunken daze of the previous night and found his way for the first time to the building's exit. Rascal didn't say a word the whole time and it wasn't until they climbed on the bus that he began to bark.

He didn't know where it was going but at this point was more curious how long it would take his actions to yield some consequence. He couldn't bear to do any real cruelty or truly criminal mischief but he had no intention of returning the fleabag or claiming his abandoned vehicle.

Discovering El Rostro

     Pedro was six when he first believed in the Christ. His salvation was permanent and secret. Sister Rosa was more abusive than ever this time of year. He imagined she may have lost her own little one and put her grief into the strap that he and his brother Paco were at fault for straying beneath. When Paco died of cholera he was told this was God's punishment for a mischievous and seldom silent youth. Pedro was fortunate to determine this false, for he had made Rosa's lies a point of study and indeed the character of God was not consistent with such precision wrathfulness. 

    Another twelve kilometers and he might have spent a simple life amidst the loving family of sheep herders found in Jimenez del Teul. However he was a young boy with more instinct than intellect and his nose led him along a path less travelled. There were no phones and telegraph was reserved for important news, so after a short sweep of the grounds and a mile ride by Father Manuel he would be pursued no longer by any organized efforts.

    It was the holy scriptures of course that brought him safely along and demanded a boy of six be equipped to live in wilderness for the same number of months. He would read nightly by flint inspired candlelight the stories so mature and so earnest that he could only grow by decades no longer years. His focus became wisdom not the unproved wishing of a society forgetting its intentional purpose and the marks borne from creator's brand. 

    These Hebrews and their clear misbehaving he understood better than any child his age. His prayers became a chance for those who'd harmed him to find relief for their daily woes and for Pedro a days bite too for he had no reason to believe manna from heaven was a singular phenomenon.

    Soon Pedro came upon a man of sixty caught in wire, his own heart forcing death upon him as he bled a pool that muddied prison rags. Pedro's small hands and wise young mind were unskilled to respond to the unnatural trouble he'd stumbled into. Knowing no greater remedy to this man's wretched state he prayed for the family left fatherless and the poor shopkeeper who was led to thieving after the state claimed his every possession. 

    He hurried to this action he knew was now and would forever be man's greatest access to power. A single fervent request by Pedro was of course the most effective and suitable response to the deplorable condition and inconceivable depravity of this man's fate. Juan Carlos past fifteen minutes later into the arms of Christ where he knew the love of an eternal father and the significance of a God who can employ the lowly and diminished. Pedro lived only twelve years more but his wisdom and kindness taught many what a great privilege and responsibility it was for us all to bear the likeness of God.  

Slight Left

     Downtown was the location but specifically where he had no idea. This wasn't his first trip to the Box but there was a bag over his head last time and the stress of death in mind. He couldn't go out at night since the abduction and became immediately suspicious of any vans as they passed him by on the street. When they dropped him off under a bridge near Acton he sat there four hours before taking off the bag. The thought of leaving home again and the guise of security was intolerable now but here he was two days later and determined to return. He knew what to do when he arrived but he would have to find it first. 

    Exiting the freeway he remembered them turning right and following the sound of traffic through a tunnel. He drove through every tunnel he saw but it was a blur from there so when he found it he was unaware and drove right by. He pulled over on Broadway and without regard for meters or red curbs would ask passers-by "where can I find the Box?". He heard them refer to the place this way many times though they never used anyone's names. Most of the locals ignored him or we're puzzled by the question. Some played along and gave false directions, perhaps to their place of business and others just begged for change. 

   Finally in a group, one young but formidable man stepped forward. He came right up to the passenger window and asked threateningly about his business there. Knowing little about the men who took him he was sure he couldn't pass for one of them. For all he knew, this was the gang that had taken him and held him in the dark for six days. He also had little confidence in his ability to smooth talk this gentleman. What he had now was nothing to lose and courage to tell the truth. He leaned over to speak to the young man in his window and told him this: "I am Jamal Sharif, I came here six months ago with my sister.  We came to be safe. Men took us and beat us. They brought us to the Box. I ran away but they still have her. I will find her. I will do whatever it takes. I will kill anyone who tries to stop me. I hope for your sake you will help me."

  The young man paused for a moment and looked around before responding. He pointed down the road and told Jamal to take a slight left beyond a red brick building and then he said, "I am Julio Jimenez. Find your sister and kill every one of those mother fuckers. Tell them I sent you." He stepped back from the car and joined his brood. 

    The directions brought Jamal to a place he'd past three times that day. The name brought him to his sister and the threat brought the peace he'd spent a decade to find. 

Strange Climate

     Lowell was very tired. He had eight hours left and that meant another five or six trips. For years the blue collar workforce had been divided evenly. Those with excess credits could buy ships equipped to shrink eight hours into four. Lowell and the rest were lucky to fit their eight in a twenty hour day. Administration's greatest achievement had been dividing the middle class in order to weaken it. Lower had been successfully eliminated they said, successfully redefined to be a part of the middle. 

     Another desirable and expensive invention would steer his ship for him. Though the weakening hands in front of him were all he had at this pay grade. It wasn't his fault or even the mechanic responsible for his ship when the strut retainer failed. Shit happens. Lowell's spent claws slipped and the yoke shook violently as his ship plunged helplessly into the pull of a foreign mass. He should've quit then and strapped in for the ride but a swift strike from the wheel saw to it he would go quietly all the way to the surface. 

     The administration discontinued the term planet decades ago when definitions ranged from the traditional natural mass orbiting a star to a space station with at least 65 zip codes. This caused frequent problems for shippers like Lowell who were often given instructions vague enough to strand them a thousand miles from their actual destination. Lowell was an old pro though so he was sure this was not the correct target. 

     He awoke of thirst eleven hours after being knocked unconscious before tumbling to the dark golden body. It's belt was so thick the stars were no longer visible and he too was undoubtably obscured from sight of the shipping lanes. Angry to find out how long he'd been out he wondered why he couldn't have stayed asleep just one hour more. In fifty minutes his oxygen would be spent and had he stayed asleep he would have passed peacefully. Now he felt compelled to attempt survival, a burden he knew all too well coming from the south wing of station eight. 

     He'd heard stories of shippers stranded for years on rocks with suitable atmosphere though none of them were catalogued. It was to the point where any civilized Naut could only trust an artificially produced climate. In forty minutes Lowell would have little choice but to try his luck in this untested atmosphere. Another helpful gadget could identify atmospheric makeup outside the ship but who could afford the monthly payments? 

     Lowell recorded a transmission to be repeated over the radio waves as long as his battery could sustain it: "My name is Lowell Dillon, a human aboard Gen5. I've run aground some mass at approximately 4.1256.0008. You're listening to the words of a dead man so listen carefully. The administration is 95 percent alien. They cannot charge you for knowing but you must discover a plan to reclaim control of our race as I have failed to do so myself. Please remember me as part of the resistance."

     

Man’s First Chance

    Cost found it all the same way, every time. He belonged to a mindset and with it a following of active participants in this behavior. Because of the murder everyone was upset or gloating and the crops were neglected. Six calfs were stillborn that week and the geese went un-chased as they fled their cages. Dehydration claimed a number of children left alone. But Cost was above reproach. He was the only one with a right to gloat, for he had done the murder.

His brother Awe was dead within minutes. The first stone was thrown with incredible accuracy so those that followed needed no guidance to participate. Strangely though Cost was not happy with his results. He didn’t run to his brother and coddle him as he passed but neither was his reaction joyous nor led to satisfaction for a job completed. It had to be done. Those who watched were pleased. Not many loved Awe and even fewer sought him out, regardless of his wealth and impeccable grooming. Their father sat upon his usual bark and smoked a pipe he’d found in the hands of a fallen comrade.

Miles from the site Cost found a surprising item on the road. This road was only used by hunters and the shamed he thought. Who might have left a whip along the path so far from his home? Was it a whip at all or maybe something else entirely? The braids and precise pattern convinced him as did it’s definitive crack. The sound shook through this place of boulder and stone and within minutes Cost was approached by strange men. They believed him when he said his intention was peace. This gave him the advantage but they didn’t seem to desire his life or possessions. He thought it strange that not one of the men made mention of the whip or the garments he wore.

That night he was given lamb and broth until he was satiated. He was kept warm by the fire and instructed to take rest in the comfort of a lavish cave between boulders while many men chilled unprotected in the grasses. This is a great lie he thought. Cost fled the camp before morning leaving behind a confused and disappointed people who searched themselves for blame. He followed the rough path back to familiar sounds of anger and malice. Every step felt like a sharp pain in him. Cost pressed forward eager for his home and the things he’d accumulated during his long twenty year stay.

He walked into the place and saw a few faces hidden from him as they tucked quickly away into their tents. Cost was struck on his crown with a bone that splintered as it hit. He fell not ten paces from where his brother left them forever. Above him he saw his father who was unhappy with the attention and praise his son was receiving since his victorious sin.

George Gorson Tax Attorney

     George had six people to deal with at once. The mayor and his shore front property scandal, Mrs. Bennett's mounds of falsified receipts, the doctor who actually had only one son for the last six years and three other clients who were deemed inconsequential by the firm. But George wasn't a bastard. George gave not one, not two, but at least three shits about all of his clients even the poorest and most deserving of criminal punishment. The other partners would claim this sympathy of his was a weakness and one Dwight McMurphy used it as a reason to recommend his removal from the firm, or at least the door. Stein, McMurphy, Jackson, Newton, Gorson and Chang was the most powerful law firm in Newark according to Beach Body Illustrated and their weakest link was cut every quarter. George wasn't phased by this fact but McMurphy saw it as an opportunity to push Gorson out and bring in his nephew Bill Simpson. The problem with Simpson wasn't his tendency to lose sensitive case files or even his extreme addiction to smoking styrofoam, the real trouble laid in his misappropriation of funds at his last job with McHerman Trust and associates that landed him in Riker's for a six month term. McMurphy was determined to make sure his nephew had a place just as soon as he was up for parole next spring. 

     Gorson could focus much better when his feet were propped up on his aluminum desk but it severely limited his ability to see a visitor standing in his doorway. This combined with a poor sense of hearing in his left ear due to experience as an artilleryman in the first Iraq war he often ignored visitors to his office. This was especially unfortunate one Friday morning when the mayor's aide (a very timid young man) arrived early and George only looked to the door ten minutes post appointment which meant the aid had left five minutes prior after waiting patiently in the doorway for twenty minutes. The failed appointment led to the loss of Mayor Patel as a client and brought Stein straight to George's door where he did not go unnoticed. 

     Stein was a man by the name Bernardo Alvarez but they called him Stein due to his hardened demeanor and muscular physique. He shouted at George with the wrath of a baboon scorned until his heart rate monitor out-shouted him and he left to "take a lap". George couldn't understand any of the Spanish Stein had shouted at him but he had the notion he should take action to alleviate stress around the workplace. George phoned his favorite spa Thai Message, ordered six cases of Chateau Merlot from the deli and hired Yacob the Yiddish fiddler he met outside his building last week to set the mood. Within 14 hours the entire firm loved George again including McMurphy who never really had a problem with him but simply thought he "wasn't cool". 

Dedicated To My Friend Jared

   Fifteen minutes south of the taco bistro I found a piece of the craft. I could tell because it was metallic in color and texture and the break pattern seemed to indicate intense stress as if by heat and friction. Jared was brave enough to scoop it off the highway barehanded but it was heavy and hot so he couldn't bring it more than a couple yards before dropping it to the asphalt. I can't really explain what happened next. I remember being awake the whole time but it was like a dream at the point where you begin to focus on the problem and experience incredible abilities motivated by your awareness of the dream state. Six manlike forms embraced me. At first I was confused and fear urged me to aggression. An axe swung into the neck of the first and he fell as I prepared for a second but they didn't harm me. I woke in the road on my back with a migraine and when I returned to the van Jared was asleep. We drove with the windows down and the shrapnel on the back seat and that night I discovered Jared had died.
  The lights woke me in our motel room and I jumped out of bed for fear it was the police. Having no where to go I found myself desiring the axe I'd dreamt of before and peeked through the blinds. Outside in the grass an amber orb of light rose straight up to a height of two stories. From it emerged another and another straight out from the first. I had courage I've never witnessed in my self or others and presence of mind to run out into the field shouting and waving my arms. The lights responded by dimming and returning to the original orb before it streaked away overhead.
    Then the voices came around me but they did not know I was with them. Coming close without contact a chill came over me and I could scarcely breathe. I began to run back to the motel where I found Jared. He said they spoke to him while I was asleep. He said they want the fragment back and they'll take with them the one who found it. I told him he was crazy and I take responsibility for abandoning him. He walked outside for fresh air and a cigarette. I didn't join him.
    It was just a weekend to relax and explore Tubac. Maybe we would brave the headhunters and go across the border for the afternoon. Or finally make it to his cousin Marvin's to shoot skeet like he's always talking about. Instead we saw it fall past the sun and cast a flash of shadow as it screamed to the desert sand. And we had to follow it. Then I realized Jared doesn't smoke. He was my friend and I'm sorry I didn't believe him when he needed me to. 

He Was Dead Wasn't He?

     John hated all of them after that. It wasn’t so much the taunting as it was the immediate humiliation. He’d spent weeks preparing and it appeared to them that he’d just thrown it together at the last minute. Donna would find out. She always had a way of knowing the things he’d never tell her. The only thing he could think to do now was go fishing for the weekend, hell, maybe the month.

     The cabin looked much better when he’d hoofed it out there last summer with his son Freddy. Grass was growing through the deck, a couple windows smashed and a section of the roof was definitely caving in. Probably the winter weather tearing at those things we still love when nature tells us to let them die. John pulled into the drive way and loaded his arms full of gear. His sleeping bag, tackle box and backpack might be too much for one trip from the car but that was his style.

     Inside it was very musty and darker than he’d remembered, probably because the lights worked then. He was afraid to use the fireplace for fear of burning the place to the ground again. On the lake it was all exactly as remembered. The boat leaked just like last year and the fish were too small to eat but that’s okay.

     His head was throbbing the first day too so it didn’t really bother him. Freddie was worried but he assured him, “that’s why you don’t drink too much son”. When he fell asleep after trying for two hours he was unable to heed the warning signs. The footsteps outside and the sheets that surrounded his cabin like a spin cycle. This area was known for its pestilence but never had there been any incidents to speak of.

     When John woke in his back seat parked at the baseball diamond he’d grown up playing at he was confident he was still dreaming. His head was throbbing which never happened during his last trip to the lake. But now he wasn’t at the lake so maybe this was another situation all together. The problem John was facing had nothing to do with his trip to the old cabin or his embarrassment at the church. John couldn’t remember when he saw his wife last, much less his son.

     For six days he walked away from the car he’d forgotten he owned. It was as if walking was the cure to a disease that had been handed down to him. He didn’t do this. How could anyone blame him? What they did to him that night at the cabin was unforgivable and warrants any and every irrational act John could ever commit in his life. Perhaps Freddy would grow to disagree but the temptation is always there to abandon responsibility.

     John haunted his wife and son for the next twelve years but they never knew it. He was more devoted than he’d ever been as a living breathing man.