Originally published at Apropos Literary Journal
It
all started with the phone call.
It's
like a mini-movie, playing back in a constant loop.
Putting
my bag in the tiny cabin of the newest Carnival cruise ship I ponder
why they’ve named it The Wonder. Eating, exercising, reading,
watching television: the film repeats and repeats. The phantom phone
call wakes me up, like an alarm warning the audience that the show is
about to start. The cruise liner is painted in the red, white, and
blue just like all the other Carnivals.
Jimmy Fisher has
already dropped his bag off, claiming the other bed. He took shit, I
surmise this because of the fog I walked into that made me pull my
shirt above my nose. It's still there, slipping every few
minutes, annoying me because I have to pull it back up. I think he
had bacon at some point in the morning. He also doused himself in
half bottle of cologne in an attempt to cover the fecal smell, I'm
sure. Now he’s on the prowl for pussy. I’ve never been one for
cologne. I prefer to smell like nothing, even if that runs the risk
of BO. Jimmy won’t be that bad of a cabin-mate. I could think of
better guys. I could also think of worse.
I’ve assigned
different scenarios for my mind's movie. In some, it was all a
conspiracy and the cop murdered him in cold blood, others had Bryan
actually outrun the cop and living on the lam. I'd take him in and
protect him like Anne Frank.
I’ve
had to piece it together by what his family told me when I got to
their house that morning, leaving room for exaggerations. Their
details were vague, with less than concrete facts. He was drunk, got
pulled over, the cop tested him, he punched the cop in the face, got
in his car and made the getaway. In the process he was killed. I
can’t explain why he did what he did from his actions.
I lift my bag off
the rocking floor and sling it onto the unclaimed three-by-six foot
bed. My three-by-six foot bed. There’s a TV screwed to the wall.
I turn it on with hopes of killing the week by killing brain cells.
Maybe satellite TV with porn or music videos. Instead, the cruise
director is giving an orientation. He's telling me which levels have
what. There is a mini-golf course on the highest point of the boat.
And I shouldn't miss the amazing discotheque on Wednesday or Thursday
night in the nose of the ship. There is no such thing as time here,
expect a good time, of course! Check the form laying on your bed to
find out when your dinner will be served as there are two rotations.
I look at my bag on
top of the bed. Unpacking on trips always seems counterproductive to
me. You’ll just be repacking in a few days anyway. I will always
opt to live out of the suitcase before I temporarily put my travel
clothing into an unfamiliar dresser or closet. It gives me the
uneasy feeling that I’ll be staying for longer than I would want
to. It doesn’t matter if it’s for one night, or one month; as
soon as these clothes hit the drawer, I’ll be searching for an
escape plan.
I’ll see people
we graduated with and they’ll latch on for an ungodly amount of
time and when they loosen they’re all teary eyed and I know a long
speech about how sorry they are is on the agenda. I’ll
stand silent and think about the things I need to do that day while
they talk for their benefit. We both know they’re not talking to
me. They didn’t hug me. They’re trying to say goodbye through
me.
Dinner is at 5:45.
Why not just make it 6:00 or 5:30? These are cruise people, a breed
of their own. I check my watch and its face tells me 3:07. I have
no idea where anybody in our three-family group is hiding. My
parents rattled off all the different room numbers. I still had to
check my own key card to find my own room's number.
I take my jeans off
and put them on top of my bag. I pull shorts out of the bottom, but
this proves difficult with the piles of clothing that occupies the
bag. I’m able to get my shorts without disrupting the other
contents too much. I put those on and now I’m all set for
Christmas in the Mexican Riviera.
I didn’t want to
come. My mother forced me because she didn’t want to have to
explain my absence. Funny since the Emmers are here and everyone
already knows how close Bryan and I were. I never quite understood
why his family decided to come, probably to surround themselves with
friends in attempt to lessen the pain for a week.
I start walking
towards what I think is the back of the boat and feel like I’m
walking on a Tilt-O-Whirl. No wonder pirates were alcoholics, it was
the only way for them to stay balanced on these fucking things.
When I arrive at
some stairs there is carpet with all kinds of fancy flowers printed
on it. They’re really going all out for the classy look. The
carpet extends from the hallway to the stairs going up. I notice
that there are no stairs going down. One stair at a time.
The
lights flash red and blue behind the sky-blue, two door Honda Civic.
Questions are being asked. Answers are being thrown away. No one is
getting anywhere. And when no one gets anywhere in these situations
the lesser of the two humans usually gets taken to a cell.
Bryan is doing
his best to pass the sobriety test. The only problem is that he is
not sober. The five beers and four mixed drinks in his stomach
continue to happily enter his bloodstream as the cop goes through the
motions. The cop already knows this twenty-year-old organ donor is
going to be taken in tonight. He is required to prove that this kid
is under the influence, though. Innocent until proven guilty.
Officer Troutman hated that aspect of the law. It allows guilty men
to go free and innocent men to go away.
After ten
minutes of questions and testing, Troutman makes the call he knew he
was going to make the moment the Civic swerved to miss a shadow in
the road. His shift had just started at one and not twenty minutes
later he found this kid going home for the night. Some nights he
wished that he could just drive around and not deal with the young
kids killing their future with stupid decisions.
Seeing my mother is
the last thing I want to do right now. It was supposed to be an in
and out operation, but as I was climbing the stairs I heard her voice
call me to the living room. She was reading. I just went there to
grab one fucking simple picture.
“They decided the
funeral is going to be Thursday,” she said.
I nodded and turned
for the stairs that would release me to the outside where I could
smoke cigarettes.
“They told me to
tell you that if you wanted to say anything you could,” I stopped
with my back facing her.
“Did you want to say anything?”
I faced her. She
had laid the book she was reading down on her chest saving her place.
I shook my head, “No, not really.” Camels. Turkish Gold. I
left a pack in my freezer.
“I would think a
best friend could think of something to say,” she said.
Biting my lip, I
nodded and walked up the stairs.
I read a eulogy
that Thursday.
“Okay,
Bryan, I’ve come to the conclusion that you are inebriated this
evening,” Troutman begins. “You have the right to remain
silent,” he pulls the handcuffs from his belt, continuing the
Miranda Rights.
This kid has
been polite all through the questions, answers, and the useless
tests. He said all the right things, he just didn’t have the right
physical responses. Troutman hated doing these things when the kids
seem so normal. What are his parents going to think when they get a
call in the middle of the night? They would be disappointed in their
son, but maybe this will be a turning point in his life. He might
give up smoking pot, drinking and the general act of fucking around
because of this night. See that this isn’t a life that’s worth
living.
Nine floors later I
see sunshine. My cabin is in a prison. I walk out an automatic
slider and start wandering. My hair ruffles in a salty breeze. Not
a minute out here do I hear my mother’s voice shout my name. As
soon as that sound hits my eardrums. The movie interrupts for a
quick word from its sponsor: Camel's Turkish Gold.
“Hey, where is
everyone?” I try to sound happy.
“Over here. We
thought we’d check out the main swimming deck—the Lido deck is
the proper name—before dinner.” She sounds like a shotgun in my
ear. “Come on, it’s awesome.”
I feel like a
trapped animal as I follow her to the full group. Why can’t the
bars be open now? A light drink. Or some gin. A screwdriver, even.
As a substitute I deny my mother’s wishes and pull my pack of
Camels out.
“Edmund, do you
remember?”
“Yeah, I do,” I
take a long drag off the Camel and exhale the smoke as slowly as my
lungs will allow. “But you should try looking at things from my
point of view.” Always be the first to walk away. You'll look
victorious.
I don’t make it
fifteen feet before she grabs me by the back of my arm. Letting out
a deep sigh I turn around to face the woman.
We stare at each
other for longer than necessary.
She breaks the
silence.
“They’re
scattering the ashes tonight. After dinner.”
The
officer takes Bryan by the forearm and starts to turn him around.
Bryan doesn’t allow the cuff to wrap all the way around his wrist.
Instead he rips his hand back and punches Officer Troutman in the
face. Blood pours from the officer’s nose as he loses balance and
drops to one knee to prevent from falling to his back. Bryan stomps
the man in the collarbone, knocking him all the way down to the
pavement. He kicks him a few times before he runs back to his car,
buying himself a few minutes before Troutman fully understands what
has just happened.
Bryan reams on
the key after he slides it into the ignition and his car starts right
up. He puts the gear into drive and puts the pedal to the floor. He
hadn’t ever floored his car before, but it has more pick up and go
than he anticipated. He blows through the first light, as it is
turning yellow, not that it matters what color it is. Bryan is out
of this situation and on his way to his girlfriend’s house. He had
told Amber he would be there ten minutes ago.
We met in fifth
grade. Soccer. I decided I needed to be better friends with Bryan
Emmers when he called a sixty-year-old man a bitch. Think of the
best friend you grew up with. The one who laughed at all the same
jokes, who told you the day after he first had sex, and made you
promise you’d call him the night after you first did. The guy who
understood your mumblings, and you, his. No one could decipher what
the conversation was, but you two knew exactly what was being said.
My mother didn’t
call me until 8:00am. They had found out three hours earlier. Would
the sleep have mattered? They thought it was a gift.
My phone shouted
at me and I thought it was my alarm. I didn’t fully realize I
hadn’t set one because it was Thanksgiving. The caller ID box held
a picture of my mother. I answered with a groggy, “Huh?”
“Allen and Howl
doted a car accident lost naught.” She said, trying to sound calm.
“What?”
She paused a moment
trying to collect herself. “Bryan Emmers died in a car accident
last night.”
I heard it that
time.
The sound I made
wasn't literate.
“Bryan Emmers…”
she began again.
“Are you fucking
with me?” I shouted.
“No. Listen,
Jimmy is coming to get you to take you to the Emmers house. Stay
there.”
I ran across my
apartment and opened my roommate’s door with a slam.
“Edmund, what the
fuck?”
“Bryan’s dead.”
It’s
5:30 and I’m in a line to get into the dining hall. We were told
that we’ll be sitting at the same table each night with the same
waiter, and the same group of people. Our group was so large we knew
everyone at our fifteen person table. It was a way to build
relationships on the vacation. Sounds a lot like high school
leadership camp bullshit to me.
I’m standing
solo, but our room keys are marked with the table number we were to
sit at. The line moves, but we're edging by a bar. Stepping out of
and back into line for no more than thirty seconds I have the
addition of a White Russian in my hand. Tonight has started looking
up.
The glass is empty
by the time I sit down and I instantly get the attention of the
cocktail waitress and order another one. Just as I stood in line
alone, I now sit at the enormous table alone. The dining room isn’t
too full just yet and Nadia is able to get my drink before her order
list is too large. I keep ordering, giving her my dad’s ID number.
Family and friends
arrive just before my third drink does. First the Fishers, the
all-American family. Picture the perfect family, then add a little,
you’d get the Fishers. Two kids, both married to wonderful
Christian women who know how to stay kid-free. They're the kind of
people who should have kids because you know they've thought about
the decision. They answer the phone with a smile, all of the. They
make the Cleavers look like the Mansons.
Then Bryan’s
parents enter with my own, they look like they were having a nice
talk. Thank God I've been drinking. Andy looks down at me.
“Your mom tells
us that she’s let everyone know about tonight?”
I nod to confirm
that she had performed her duties and that I’d be there. Momentary
silence. Before the lack of sound became any worse, Bryan’s
sisters saunter in. The whole family.
“Steph, Emily,
come over here, please,” Bryan’s mom asks, standing up and
pulling Andy with her.
“Karen, could
you?” She asks holding out a digital camera. My mother nods and
takes the camera from Ann’s steady hands.
The four of them
stand arm in arm for their first newly formed family portrait. I
leave before my mother puts her index finger on the button.
Troutman
sees the red taillights speed into the distance, but he isn’t about
to let this kid go and kill someone. He needs this kid to be safely
in the backseat of his cruiser. He tries to wipe the blood from his
lip, but it does nothing other than smear it across his cheek. He
gets to his radio and calls for backup. As Troutman puts his own car
into motion he is still able to see the red lights in the distance.
With his training he will be able to catch up within minutes. He
flips his lights and the siren on and lets the cruiser accelerate up
to an adequate chasing speed.
The Civic picks
up speed as Troutman begins to close in, but it was still no match
for his cruiser. That’s the thing that these young kids don’t
seem to understand. Cop cars may look like they don’t have the
guts, but there are people who put the guts in there. It’s all
about appearance. This way they can trick people into thinking that
they’re on top when the officer is really just biding his time.
Troutman is about to get on his loudspeaker to tell this
twenty-year-old to pull over when the Honda swerves a bit and the
front right tire clips a curb and blows out.
People opened the
paper that day and read about a kid who punched a cop in the face and
died in the process of trying to get away. They didn’t care, some
of them were even happy or pleased. Don’t fuck with the good guys,
or you will get fucked up. Something like that.
People fail to
realize that this wasn’t just some twenty-year-old drunk college
student. It’s never like that in any case. This is the guy that
would be in my room an hour within life going sour.
His laugh, it was
one in a million.
It hasn't made an
appearance in the movie.
Why get over it,
when you can adapt to it?
Rubber
is flapping on the right side, but Bryan is able to tighten his grip
on the steering wheel and keep the car from spinning out. There is a
momentary lapse in speed, but he isn’t going to let that stop him
from getting away. He presses harder with his foot, but his car
doesn’t respond like he hopes. His eyes are fixated on his
speedometer, which is slowly declining from the 70mph. It is only at
the last second does he look up to see that he is about to miss a
shallow curve.
Troutman
witnesses the sky-blue Honda Civic attempt a last minute turn and
drive up and over a mound of dirt and then a curved guardrail. The
sparks sizzle from the rim on road. The car is airborne for a moment
before disappearing from his eyes.
A knock comes from
outside my cabin door. It wakes me up from the dream, before the
dream could wake me with a phone call. I open the door to my mother
standing in the frame.
“They’re going
to be scattering him in about twenty minutes. We’re all meeting at
the courier’s desk.”
I nod and start to
walk away to the bed. I will be able to sleep for another ten
minutes before I need to start my futile search for the meeting spot.
But my mother has stuck her foot in the door and is preventing the
reassuring click.
“Where’d you go
at dinner?”
I put my arms out.
“Here. Where else would I go?” I didn’t even get back to my
bed.
“That was
embarrassing, leaving your father and I to explain your behavior.”
She looks hurt.
“I didn’t ask
you to explain. You don’t have to get involved.”
“I am involved,
Edmund. My friend’s son died. I’m here.”
“ ‘Your
friend’s son?’ How about your son’s best friend?”
She wants a
suitable retort.
“He was your
friend, so you should know how to get along around other people who
are mourning,” she says.
“Ah, fuck you,
mom. You have no clue.” She doesn’t quite gasp, but she doesn’t
keep quiet either. Her reaction lingers in a haze. “I should know
how to act? How about you?”
“Pardon?” It
sounds more like a statement.
“You don’t
realize that people deal with shit differently, that you haven’t
made losing my best friend easier, you’ve made it harder. You
think I wanted to come on this cruise and see his face in theirs?
Great vacation! Thanks!”
I grab the shorts
off the floor and start tugging them on.
“How have I made
it harder? I’ve been here for you, no matter what I’ve been
doing, everything I’ve done has been a sacrifice for your benefit.”
“Fuck, go do your
thing. I don’t care. Just don’t drag me on a boat after
something like that. Because you quit your Bunco group for a month
doesn’t mean you’ve sacrificed. I don't care if you turn your
phone off to watch a movie. I'm not calling anyway.”
“You said I made
it harder.”
“You’ve never
taken my side on this. ‘You
should do this, they were trying to protect you, I would think a best
friend could think of something to say.’ Are you
trying to make me feel bad? Stop
trying to explain other people’s motives to me.”
She says nothing.
Grabbing my wallet
off the dresser I brush past her into the labyrinth of hallways.
Troutman
stumbles down the embankment to find the car had rolled to a stop.
The front end is looking up back to the road it had just disconnected
from. He gets up next to the front passenger side window and sees
the body laying in the back seat. Both seat belts hang intact in
their respective areas. The officer looks at the open dead eyes of
the young man lying in his death.
It’s a good thing
that I left when I did. Even with the twenty-minute head start I am
the last one there and late.
They’re standing
in a large group, murmuring about what they plan to do for the rest
of the week. I join them, but not in the conversations. Andy is the
only member to notice my arrival. He motions to the ship
representative and the group moves on in a muddled herd into more
hallways that look like the same hallway my room is set in. Flowers
hang in crude paintings.
It seems like we’re
walking for ten minutes before we go through a glass door and come
upon the moon’s reflection on the Pacific in the ship’s wake.
The quiet is taken away out here and we can hear the boat’s motor
working hard to get us to Mexico.
Ann walks up to me
and rubs my back. “Bryan liked it when I rubbed his back like
this. If it bothers you, just let me know.”
I allow her to rub.
“How are you
doing? Doing okay?” She asks. It sounds sympathetic because it
is. “Yeah, it stinks,” she continues without my help, “I
know.”
“Shit happens,”
I respond.
“Yes, it does,”
she leaves my back and goes to Andy.
The motors shake my
ears as Andy and Ann embrace each other to keep from crying before
they let their son go. No one talks of the week’s itinerary out
here. The motor kicks water into the darkness.
Andy sets a
backpack on the deck and removes a container about the size of a
shoebox. I take a step closer to the railing that is protecting us
from falling off and drowning in the Wonder’s wake. This doesn’t
stop people from jumping.
I climb over the
railing and dive in, watching the boat sail away. Alone in the
middle of the ocean. Peaceful, yet terrifying. The water is as dark
as the air and there is no bottom to this sea. The salt is the taste
of dehydration, coating my mouth. I can wait until the cruise is
gone and enjoy the lonesome quiet before I allow my body to sink.
Thinking is as far
as I get in this daydream.
Andy opens the box
and pulls out a clear bag of Bryan. He doesn’t say a word. No one
says a word. He opens the plastic and we watch as the ash falls into
the wind to be thrown about, half of it shoots back towards us, but
no matter where it flies it ends up resting in the water.
He taps the bag and
the last particles drift out, but the gust of wind brings it back
into our group, again. A piece of ash flies into my eye and I turn
away to get it out. It feels like a small, fine grain of sand.
As I probe my eye
trying to get Bryan out, his mom starts singing “Silent Night.”
It was his favorite Christmas song. As her voice grows, others join
in. Within the first twenty-five seconds, the whole rear end of the
ship sings in chorus. Except for me. I am busy trying to get the
piece of ash out of me.
Taking a deep
breath, I pull my eyelid down and keeping my hand steady, I move my
right middle finger into the corner of my eye. When I think I have
him I take my hand back and find relief. I pinch the grain of him
and the film stops.
I lean over the
rail and roll the ash off my finger and it falls into the sound—I
can almost hear the sound of that soft giggle—of voices singing to
another wandering dead.
