The Day My Brother Died

I parked on Main Street, a block from my office, convinced this was the last day of my life.

The reality struck me unbidden, pure and true. I only had to make the walk to my office to square the prophecy, complete the premonition.

Like a toddler who waits too long and doesn’t quite make it to the restroom, my tears came, walking the block to the front door of my building, before I made it to the sanctity of my office. I ran into no one; like I was invisible. No one saw me walk-crying.

I entered the building, walked the main hallway to my office, unlocked and opened my office door across from the elevator, walked to the credenza against the back wall, desk to my right, green couch to my left. I opened the upper cabinet door, retrieved the Smith and Wesson box and set it in front of me. I bought him at the outset of the pandemic, a generic Military & Police nine millimeter, for five hundred, fifty dollars, promising my uncle I would take a gun safety course.

Now he’s out of the box and in my hands, door to my office open behind me. I released the clip and then slapped it back into place, like a hundred times before. I pulled the slide back, then let it glide back into place, like a hundred times before. But this afternoon, this particular sunny Thursday afternoon, I had something else in mind. The last day of my life.

“You joining me today,” Jimmy Langford, dressed in black and white, like a fifties gangster, a Polaroid, asked me from the couch.

“I didn’t see you come in,” I answered without looking at him as I raised the barrel of the M & P to my forehead and pulled the trigger.

“You never do,” he responded.

Click.

“Load it next time, buddy,” Jimmy said.

I looked to him for an answer but he was gone.

In October 1955, a notice in the Galveston Tide newspaper stated that John Ecks, a 61 year old Italian-American male, died of natural causes at the Galveston County Lunatic Home. Mr. Ecks was six feet, two inches tall, one hundred eighty pounds, grey hair at the temples. He was buried at the county cemetery without a marker. Mr. Ecks was a great bridge player and kept an eclectic botanical garden for forty years on the east side of the Lunatic Home. The only thing remarkable about Mr. Ecks, aside from the fact that he spent two-thirds of his life in a sanitarium, was that he had no memory.

In May 1915, a police beat item in the Galveston Tide stated that an unidentified man was arrested for vagrancy on Galveston Beach.

The day before, Officer Galindo approached a man with long, tangled black hair, greasy, wearing black trousers, a black belt, including a buckle with an “L” in the middle, no shoes, no shirt. Officer Galindo was patrolling the area pursuant to a walk-in report at the station a few hours before regarding a strange person strolling the beach since the night before. Galindo reported that the man had no identification, one penny in his right pocket and a blank notepad sheet from the Excelsior Inn in his left pocket. The man, formally identified as Mr. X in the report, could not provide a name, an address, closest relative, where he was coming from or where he was going. Galindo, his wife cooking meatloaf at home, his favorite, had no choice. He arrested Mr. X for vagrancy, processed him, locked him up in intake, submitted his report and went home to have dinner with his wife, Jenny. She always smiled for the people she would meet.

The first time I met Mr. X, now known to me as Jimmy Langford, I was six years old. He was dead ten years. At least that’s what he told me. He just wanted to talk. And so we did. He told me not to tell Mom and Dad. Honestly, I didn’t like them all that much. I mean I am no Ronald DeFeo but still they were dicks to me. Jimmy’s secret was safe with me. There was no shame. Not like this; not like this right now:

It’s embarrassing, taking out a loan at a killer interest rate from Southern Gulf Coast Finance. But it’s always feast or famine with me and I don’t save for shit. So this Wednesday, the first day in September, when a client paid me in cash, I headed to Southern, paying off the shark, you know, professional courtesy and all. Just last night I had to split my bar bill at Armadillos between two cards, fifty on one, fifty on the other, my newly long-suffering secretary leaving with another man at 12:01. Feast or famine.

My brother, vagrant of a different variety, is also a source of embarrassment. He doesn’t have to live on the streets. Mom and Dad, vagrants of another sort, left the house to both of us. For their sake—no, for Dad’s sake—I sleep with all house doors open. Unlike the blank office weapon, I am loaded at home. No, Uncle, I never took the gun class but how hard can it be? I figure it’s like a Polaroid. Point and click. I’m a light sleeper anyway. Jake comes and goes all hours of the night, our only stipulation being that none of his burn-out friends can join him or I will kill them. Sometimes I hear him slipping in nightly, sometimes it’s not for weeks. But, always, for Dad, the doors are unlocked. He does not use a key. Fuck, sometimes, after I hear him throwing up outside, I help him open the goddam door. I sleep light.

“Mr. Barrios,” Elizabeth at SGCF, after processing my cash payment, handing me the receipt, said, “I put your available cash balance on there for whenever you want to come back.” Indeed she had. Fucking crack dealer.

“Thank you,” I replied, and exited the building before her boss, Morty, could spot me and strong arm me into taking out another “sh’rt t’rm” loan. He let me slide once, just doing a will for his Sicilian mother, “off da b’oks,” as he put it.

A few weeks after SGCF, Jimmy Langford visited me during a troubled sleep over Amber. It had been awhile. I tossed the sheet off of me, thought I might do some writing. Sat up on the edge of the bed and he joined me, sitting next to me. When he shifted his weight, our knuckles touched.

“You okay,” he asked me, putting his hand forcibly on top of mine.

“I'm fine,” I said, scooting my hand out from underneath his and moving my torso an inch away from him.

After a moment, he said, “She’s hot.”

We didn’t need to communicate what was already communicated so I just said, “Yea she is.” Guilty for choosing Liz over Amber to fall asleep to.

He took my hand. We held hands on the edge of my bed.

“Barrios,” he said. The grip in my hand loosened, not because he was letting go but because, again, he was fading away.

“She is going to hurt you,” he said. My eyes were open and I was looking up at the ceiling. The sun was coming up through the curtains. It was morning, the fifth day.

As I sat at my desk later that morning, after my shower and mouthwash, (Christ! I think he even combed his hair!), my Samsung laptop sputtered in the middle of the Final Decree of Divorce I was preparing for Kristy and died.

I left the office with nothing to do—nothing I could do—the entire office exists on that damn laptop. I drove and found myself back at SGCF, seated across from Elizabeth, slender and engaged. She suggested I replace my crapped out Samsung with an Apple Mac and asked if I ever worked from home. Morty was behind her, rubbing her shoulders which, surprisingly, did not seem to bother her. He whispered something to her and she smiled as he walked off to the office behind her, leaving us to look at each other.

“Morty says I can approve you for TWO Macs,” she said, almost bouncing in her chair, smiling, “one for your office, one for your house.”

“What does he want,” I asked warily. She looked wounded.

“Nothing,” she answered defensively. “I mean,” she added, “pay your loan off,” she said, losing the smile.

“Yea I get that,” I responded.

“Yes or no, hon,” she asked, complete business.

“Sure,” I answered. Her smile returned.

“Great,” she said, and turned to her screen. After a while she stopped working on the new loan’s paperwork and put her right hand, palm up, on the desk.

“You know, Sam,” she said, “he really cares about your practice. He wants you to be successful.”

The loan documents began printing on the desk beside her.

“The world is a better place when my office functions prosperously,” I said.

“Indeed,” she answered, distracted, getting the papers from the print tray.

I imagined asking her out to dinner and fucking her on my desk after we set up the new office Mac.

Instead I asked, “How’s George?”

“The same,” she answered.

I set up the Macs on my own.

A few months later, Morty, sober, showed up at my office. I had to explain to the new girl, Danni, trying to keep him out, that Morty was always, always an exception to the “no conference without an appointment” rule, like Macy Portela, like Carter Williams. She would tell me that his big scarred nose frightened her.

Back in my office, I asked him if I was current on my loan.

He didn’t answer me; instead, he asked if I could do something for him.

“Of course,” I answered.

He said he would zero out the loan and give me an increased line of credit if I would do this for him. He handed me the title to a Regal LX2.

“The favor that I’m doing for you is that I’m getting a boat,” I asked.

“You know what you should do,” he asked me back.

I remained silent. Morty was shorter than me but bigger around. Sometimes, especially in early morning court appearances, I had to clear my throat and raise my voice to be heard, the judge impatiently telling me to speak up, please. Morty never had to clear his throat.

“You should ask Liz out. She’s a fun girl. She likes you. Take her out on the boat. You can talk.”

The fuck?

“You should do that now. Boat’s insured.”

He turned and left, leaving the office door open.

It was a hell of an offer: no debt, increased credit, Elizabeth in a bikini. I went to the front office.

“Danni,” I said, eying the front door closing behind Morty, “cancel my appointments for the rest of the day.”

She gave me a confused look.

“You,” she started, “you don’t have any appointments today.”

“Well,” I said, pausing, “I’m leaving for the day. Hold all my calls.”

“Oooohhh. Kaaay,” she said.

“You have my cell,” I said. Then Elvis left the building.

When I got to SGCF, Elizabeth was leaning against her desk, a gym bag on the desk in front of her. I walked to her. She seemed serious.

“Do you want to—,” I started.

“Sure,” she said, “let’s go. You drive.” She picked up her bag and started walking toward the door. I followed her.

Once outside, I clicked the doors of my truck open (beep) and she opened the back passenger door, tossing her gym bag onto the floorboard in the back. She shut the back door and got in the front passenger seat as I was starting the truck engine.

Before I could say anything, she said, “Boat’s at the port.”

We drove for a minute in silence, SGCF getting smaller in the rear view when she asked me, “You get high?”

“No,” I said abruptly. She adjusted her seat belt in the passenger seat beside me.

Fifteen minutes later, we were at the dock and Elizabeth directed me to Front Alexa, Morty’s (now my) Regal LX2. She took the lead, gym bag on her shoulder. Tight jeans. Nice view. We boarded.

Sun above us, on deck, the boat swaying beneath us, docked in.

“You know how to drive this thing,” she asked.

Not only was that answer “no” but I also didn’t know where we going so I just looked at her. She said, “Hang on.”

I enjoyed the moment. On the deck of my new boat, the sunshine shining. A woman I could never have in real life. What’s going to happen next, I wondered. Liz disappeared below deck. I leaned back, starboard.

A few moments later she came back up in a black bikini, a key fob and a bottle of suntan lotion, slight smell of weed following her. She put the fob and suntan lotion beside her in the captain’s chair and push buttoned the motor on.

“You ready,” she asked.

“Always,” I said, loosening my tie from my court appearance that morning.

We disembarked, quiet in each other’s company.

As we motored on, I took the tie and shirt off, standing around in a grey tee shirt, asking Liz inane nautical questions.

After fifteen minutes she had the boat on what appeared to be the naval equivalent of cruise control and she told me to go below deck and put on some swim trunks, that I looked stupid.

“Morty’s,” I asked.

“Can you just,” she responded, squinting, looking for sunglasses. “Take the shirt,” she added.

I grabbed the Oxford, the mismatching tie, and did as I was told.

When I returned, wearing swimming trunks, barefoot, no shirt, she slowed the speed of our Alexa as I approached. The sun was setting. She lifted the suntan lotion with her right hand, her left hand on the wheel, and said, “Come.”

I did as I was told.

She reminded me she was married and instructed me to rub the lotion on her shoulder and—no lower, she warned—her shoulder blades.

I did as I was told.

She slipped the bikini top off, putting both hands on the wheel, accelerating. “Shoulder blades only,” she reminded me. And so it was.

After another fifteen minutes, she stood up, grabbed her bikini top and, putting it back on, said, “Grab the wheel. Don’t touch anything else. I’ll be back in a few.”

I did as I was told. The water was smooth, the humid Gulf Coast water mixed with the cool air. The moon was only a sliver. I could faintly hear the waves periodically breaking on the sides of my Front Alexa.

Liz came back up with a renewed smell of weed and two Blue Moons, gave me one, switched places.

“You in shape,” she asked me, throttling the Alexa up, checking out my physique.“I’m probably in better shape than you are,” she continued, not waiting for my answer, kicking back her beer.

“We gotta do something for Mort,” she said. “Gonna be a little work. Get your breath. We’re almost there.”

We talk about small stuff without saying anything, then she button presses the engine off and Front Alexa slows to an unsteady stop. We walk, at her direction, to the stern and, again at her guidance, we drop two sea anchors, one on each side. Alexa steadies.

“We need to go below,” she says.

I walk to port and grab her arm. She is facing me.

“Look,” I say, “I’ve been really patient. I’ve done everything—every—thing—you and Morty have asked me to do today. I left work. I’m out here with you. We’re going below? We’re anchored. Are you going to murder me, what the hell? Can you tell me what’s going on?”

Sullen, she doesn’t answer me. “I appreciate what Morty—,” I start.

“You’re already pregnant,” Liz interrupts me.

I drop my hand from her arm and look at her, the slivered moon reflecting off the still black water, just outside of the boat’s grasp.

“We belong to Morty,” she says. I can no longer, in the darkness, see her eyes. As I shake my head no, she says, “You said it yourself,” mocking my voice, an octave higher, “I left work. I’m out here with you. We’re anchored!’” Then, for the coup de grace, she adds, pitch perfect, “‘Are you going to murder me?’”

At this point I kind of want to kill someone. Alas, I’m late to the party.

She unceremoniously adjusts her breasts inside her bikini top and, once again sullen, says “I can’t do this fucking job alone. We need to go below deck.” She takes a step forward. I move aside, then follow her below.

We belong to Morty.

It’s cramped down here. It smells of Elizabeth’s pot and dank seaweed. I had not noticed, when I was putting on Morty’s trunks earlier, what appeared to be a bundle of carpets tightly wound together on the left bunk. However, Elizabeth, a dim light caressing her midriff, was not standing there earlier, like a Price is Right model, showcasing the corpse. I did not know that the carpet was covering a stupid motherfucker who crossed Morty’s boss. I did not know that the corpulent Morty Disasso killed on request, like the Piano Guys playing whatever song you wanted for a five dollar tip on Saturday night at Haligan’s. I did not know that Morty hated picking up after himself.

“Grab his feet,” Elizabeth said.

Feet?

I blank stared her. She impatiently pointed at the end of the bundle nearest me, then, exhaling, lifted up her end. Got it. I lifted up my end (“the feet”) and we waddled the bundle up the stairs and over to the side of the Alexa, stopping only once so I could catch my breath. If this was going to be a thing, I needed to get in shape. Looking at Liz’s breasts as she leaned over the corpse, I wanted this to be a thing, imagined her grasping the brass rod over the bunk bed, my face between her legs, beneath her, the sound of the Gulf Coast waves softly slapping the sides of Front Alexa.

I started pushing my end of the carpet toward the water and she said, “Uh! Uh! Uh!” I stopped.

“You’re seriously going to throw the carpet in,” she yelled. “Are you fucking stupid?”

Morty just gave me his boat, forgave my loan and handed me a ridiculous line of credit and—we can’t throw away some cheap ass Pier One carpets? Ohhhhh Kay.

“Unwrap him,” she said.

I began opening the carpet. It was dark. I could not see him. When he was fully exposed, she walked over to me.

“I hate this part of the job,” she said and she gave me a kiss. Or tried to. I was frozen. There is a dead body—right—right there.

“You’re not getting any on the way back. Don’t touch me after he’s gone,” she said and tried again. This time I let her. We didn’t actually make out. She pushed my hands off her hips mid-kiss. I settled for the best hands-free kiss of my life that didn’t lead to a live birth.

After, she said, “Hold the rug,” which I did.

She walked over to the cadaver’s hips, placed her hands under his behind, lifted and shoved. Fucking Rhonda Rousey mode. I did not think she had made purchase but a few seconds later I heard his body splash into the water.

Not looking at me, she said, “Put the rug back.” I started gathering the detritus of act three.

“And wash your hands,” she added.

Below deck, as I was putting the rug on the bunk bed, glancing at the brass rod overhead, I heard Elizabeth start the engine.

“You belong to me,” Jimmy L said from the bunk, on top of the rug I had just put down. Half of his face was gone. This time, the moment I saw him, he began fading.

“Fuck you,” I replied, “I belong to Morty.”

“For now,” he said, finally looked at me in love, then he was gone.

I finished tidying up below deck, washed my hands, grabbed two Blue Moons and joined Elizabeth up top.

“This isn’t all there is,” she said. She took the beer and throttled back. We talked but we didn’t talk about the dead guy and we didn’t talk about the future.

Over the next year, Elizabeth and I took Front Alexa out three more times. We followed the same routine. Always the back rub; always the kiss—never anything more. Then, twice, I went out on my own. She broke up with me one night over a shared Tomahawk steak at Armadillos. We’re still friends.

Then it came time for me to break up with Morty. A little bit more sensitive than Liz cutting ties with me. I was tired of the bodies. I would give him the boat back, pay off the loan.

We were at Haligan’s.

“Barrios,” he said, noticing Chloe noticing him, “let’s move to the table.” I ordered another round and I moved us to the high top behind us, looked toward the front of the bar. Thought about Doris.

“Barrios,” he said at the table, sipping on his Bulliet neat, “you done a lot of shi’ for me.” His eyes narrowed.

“I ‘on’t need the fucking boat. And I don’t need,” he said, putting his hand on my shoulder and squeezing, “the fucking loan. It’s a goddam write-off.”

Was he sad?

“I do have one last job I’d like you to do before you,” he started and then laughed at a joke he had not told yet. He lifted his iceless bourbon, looked at me and finished, “ride off into the fugging sunset.” He narrowed his eyes again.

“This motherfucker is into us for ten grand and he’s disrespecting us,” he said.

Us?

“You and Liz,” I asked.

He put the drink down on the table between us.

Chloe walked up.

“Shut up,” he said.

“You guys OK,” Chloe asked.

“Let’s get another round,” I said.

“We’re fine,” Morty said.

Chloe left. I don’t know what she decided.

“I’m talking about the guys. You ain’t one of the guys. Liz ain’t one of the guys. The loan shit is my side. Liz works for me. For the side. You got it,” Morty asked.

“Yea,” I said.

“You’ll never be one of the guys,” Morty said. “Ever.”

“Okay,” I said.

Chloe brought drinks. Put them between us.

“I don’t have the paperwork done on this guy yet but when I do, you do the job and then you can fuck right off,” he said.

“Morty,” I said, looking for some purchase.

“Look,” he said, “go back and live your life. You want out. I get it.” He snorted, took a good drink of his dry bourbon. “Fuck do I get it.” More to himself than to me.

I waited for the paperwork on the guy to get done.

Meanwhile, home sweet home, I have seen neither hide nor hair of Jake for two weeks. Jimmy, also, has grown remarkably silent.

On October 28, a police beat item in the Sendera Advocate stated that there was an abduction of an adult male in Sam’s parking lot. That night, as I was lying in bed, Jimmy sat beside me, full and heavy, like the first time we met.

“How’s Jake,” he asked me.

I threw the covers off of me and, pulling myself up, sat, my back to the wall, put my head against the wall behind me.

“He’s fine,” I answered.

“And you,” he asked, “Are you still lying to yourself about Amber coming back?” He paused. “Or fucking Liz? One day,” he continued, “you will also lie to yourself about Jake coming back.” He shifted his weight, fading away again.

“You miserable fuck,” he continued, “you should end it.” He paused again, his weight lightening and his appearance fading.

“Join me. Get it right this time.”

I struck at his head with my right hand but there was nothing of him other than contrails. I fluffed the pillows behind me and laid back down on them. My second sleep session was dreamless.

A few days later, Morty was in my office standing behind me. Danni, apparently, got the memo. He slipped an envelope on the desk beside me. I opened it, looked at the cash and a note with the date and time.

I took the cash in my hand and said, “This isn’t necessary.”

“This is the last one. Throw the carpet in. Throw it in full.”

“Sure,” I said. “Can Liz come?”

“Boat’s sailed,” he said.

Fine. I can mission impossible this.

At the appointed date and time, I motored out into the gulf. My brother remained awol, strung out on meth, I suppose. SPD still had a missing male on their hands. Me, I’m getting ready to throw this bitch off the side of my boat and then Morty can kiss my ass. I’ll throw his hundreds around at the strip club tonight. Sleep in late tomorrow. Fuck, though, I miss Elizabeth. I miss her delicate shoulders.

“Boat’s sailed,” he said.

I killed the engine with the sun low and then I anchored in. The waves splashed against her sides.

I knew the fucker was below deck but I wanted to look at the moon, reminisce, grab a couple of Blue Moons and think about my future. I was almost sixty. Morty and Liz got me in the best shape of my life. Hell, as much as an old guy could be, I was ripped, dumping these bodies at a steady clip. Kind of wondered what this guy in the carpet had done to tick off Morty. Or his boss. Or their associates. Wondered how I lost Liz. How I lost Amber.

Fuck it. Fuck this guy.

“Let’s go get him,” Jimmy said.

As I finished my Blue Moon, he took a slow gulp of his. “Can I tell you something,” he asked.

I took another sip, nodded my head yea.

“You never needed Elizabeth.”

“Yea,” I told Jimmy Langford as I headed below deck, remembering the back of her shoulders in my hands, steps away from where we were now.

I lugged him up, one step at a time, dragged him across the deck and stuck him starboard. Fuck Morty, I’m saving the carpet. Consider it a “sh’rt t’rm loan.” I unrolled the body onto the deck. A cloud that had been covering Mr. Moonlight breezed away, illuminating the corpse.

The body. Male. Nude.

Jake.

Jimmy crouched beside him, popped him on the forehead as I was thinking about CPR and said, “He’s dead, bro,” and then, coward that he was, disappeared again.

I wondered again how I lost the girls, Amber, Elizabeth, what Jake did. Noticed the bruising on his face, his torso. This was my decision alone; Jimmy was gone. But I know what he would say.

Chunk him.

And so I did. Splash. Just like the others. Noticed my own bruising. Torso mainly, face hidden.

We were both involved with the same man and neither one of us knew it. The lawyer. The vagrant. The puppet master. My brother’s body, into the mob, debt paid, sunk.

I went below deck, grabbed a few more beers, then came back up to motor Front Alexa across my piece of the Gulf, saltwater in my face, into harbor.

I left Alexa and drove to my house. Mom was gone. Dad was gone. Jake was gone.

I stripped down, turned the AC up to eighty-five, laid down on top of the covers.

Hey, Jake ain’t coming in.

I got up, naked, and locked the back garage door, the interior garage door, the front door, walked back to my room and grabbed my M & P from the night stand and placed the muzzle in the middle of my forehead before falling asleep, putting him to my right side.

I awoke a few hours later to Jimmy, crouched beside me, one hand on my abdomen, one hand on the Smith & Wesson, lips on my left ear. “You have nothing,” he said.

“Join me.”

I shook my head no.

“Fuck you,” he said. He grabbed the weapon from the bed to the right of me, placed the barrel to my left temple. I waited patiently as he pulled the trigger.

It did not click.