My Entire Life

When a 9mm bullet is approaching your skull at 853 miles per hour your life flashes in front of you. Very quickly. Of course in this case the bullet didn’t need to travel 853 miles, just, oh I'd say, about 10 feet. So, if my math is correct, that means my entire life flashed before me in about eight thousandths of a second.

Why was the bullet approaching my skull in the first place? Nice of you to ask. First let me tell you, that flash where your life goes by, that goes all the way back to the moment of your birth. Being born. So gross. If you’re a twin like me, the one who has to wait in line, even more gross. I mention this by way of introducing my slightly older brother, Ashton, for whom I believe the bullet was intended.The bullet missed, and embedded itself in a sofa. You’d think a paid assassin would; a) try and kill the right person, and also b) succeed. I doubt very much he was an amateur. He should probably be reported to some sort of Professional Assassins Quality Control Association. Not that I’m complaining. I’m just a little miffed at owing my life to someone else’s incompetence. We’re not identical twins and we don’t even look that much alike. Ashton tends to annoy people. And apparently he has really annoyed somebody this time.

I have the presence of mind to step back through the door I just walked out of. I dive for the floor and shout, “You’ve got the wrong guy!” He must have already figured that out because I hear footsteps moving at a run and getting fainter fast. I realize I should call my brother to warn him, or at least say goodbye.

I pull out my phone. As I bring up his name in contacts an image that had flashed through my mind moments before, returns. Ashton always acted like he was the big brother. I guess it makes sense. He was the first one to push and shove his way out of that hell hole called “Mom”. I don’t remember much but it had to be crowded in there, and probably too hot. Growing up he would be completely happy bullying me, but he’d go ballistic if anyone else did. He was my boss and my protector, at least in his mind.

The image that occurred to me was simple. It was a hand reaching down from above..

One day when we were about 12 we were playing down by our local swamp. The grownup name for it was Golden Lake, but it was a swamp at best. I suppose the city fathers felt the word swamp would give people a bad impression. Kids just called it The Swamp. There were no gators or swamp creatures in our swamp, but we would have been happier if there were. No adults ever went there so it was the realm of children. Maybe 50 yards from the edge of the swamp there was a little forest of scattered oaks and cottonwoods mixed in with various scrub trees. The forest was only about 50 yards wide and gave way to about 25 yards of waving long grasses which ascended a steep hill up to a busy street where adults in cars went wherever it was that they went. It wasn’t all out Lord of the Flies in the City or anything, but there was always the theoretical threat of Bullies. That was the rumor. We came across their forts and partially underground lairs and the implied threat was that you didn’t want to be caught by the Bullies. What they might do would certainly be unspeakably violent. I never actually saw any Bullies. The closest I got was once when I found a stash of Playboy magazines. That seems like the sort of thing Bullies would have lying about, don’t you think?

Anyway, one afternoon Ashton and I were playing there, in the storm drain, which was a fun place to play. It was a strong corrugated steel pipe about six feet across. You could walk back there in the dark. It was scary and mysterious and cool. When we came out of the drain that afternoon dark clouds had boiled across the sky and threatened to storm. We looked up in wonder and in both of our minds the same thought occurred. “This is going to be awesome.” We had both only ever seen a trickle of water come out of the pipe. This was going to be a lot. Like really a lot, and for sure a great thing to see. In moments the rain began to dribbble down but quickly became a torrent. It took a few minutes but the mouth of the drain followed suit. We were mesmerized. We were delighted. It was a real blasting show. We threw sticks in and watched the water fling them forward. As I stepped back I slipped down the eroded embankment and into the torrent. I grabbed a root before I could be swept away. At the same time my ankle was entwined in a root near the bottom.

The image. The hand reaching down. That was Ashton’s hand. He tried to pull me out, but my foot was stuck. He couldn’t budge me, but he held my head up until the water receded. He helped me untangle my foot and then we sat drenched on the bank. A moment of silence, and then we both started to laugh hysterically, or cry hysterically, or both, I’m not really sure. One thing for sure. To her dying day, we kept that little incident a secret from our mother.

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In a near panic I hit Ashton’s name in contacts, and then pressed the phone number. One ring, two rings, three rings, four rings. Phone answered. “Hi this is Ashton. I’m not here right now. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

I was so discombobulated I didn’t know what to say. This is the message I left. “Ashton, this is Carl. Your life may be in danger! If you live, call me.”