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Move

Moving brings out the worst in people

By Gene LassPublished 3 years ago 14 min read
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“When are you ever going to help me move?” Dennis asked. “I’ve been pushing your stuff around since college. This is the tenth time.”

“For me to help you, you’d have to go to college, or move.” Mark closed the rear door of the U-Haul. “But you became a plumber instead and bought mom’s house. So no need.”

Dennis shrugged. “I told Dad I could blow 40 grand on college and hate it, or be a plumber, join the union, and make some money right away. He knew I was right.”

Mark climbed into the driver’s seat. “Great think about you being a plumber is that since you bought the house, I haven’t clogged the toilet even once. Thanksgiving, Christmas, whatever, holiday I’m there for, poom! That post-dinner shit hits and the thing flushes clear every time.”

Dennis smiled. “Power assist flusher. For two hundred bucks you get a thing that puts high pressure behind the flush. Works like a turd cannon. I got rid of all the 30-year old lowboys we had in the house and put in tall units that I fitted with power assists.” He snapped his fingers, winked, and pointed at Mark. “You’ll never have a better shit!”

“And I haven’t. Every visit – best shit of my life.” He started the engine. “Next stop, Wheeling.” He spoke in a computer-like voice: “We will be leaving…New Jersey…in roughly…15 minutes. Please fasten your seat belt.” He put the truck in gear.

Dennis was silent for a bit as Mark pulled the truck into traffic. He lit a cigarette.

“Don’t smoke that shit in here.”

“Go fuck yourself. You got a mover and a co-driver for free. My fee is I get to smoke.” He puffed his cigarette. “So you’re going to do it. You’re moving. To West Virginia.”

“I did move to West Virginia, man. Kate and I have a place there and she’s there now. All we have to do is get our shit there and it’s done.”

Dennis laughed and shook his head. “But West Virginia? Wheeling. West Virginia. At least it’s a city, but what the fuck? Except for the couple of years you lived in DC and New York you’ve lived your whole life in Jersey. Where are you going to get your groceries? Don’t tell me they have capicola and Italian bread at Earl’s General Store and Bait Shop.”

“We live like four blocks from a Whole Foods. I can get organic salami, prosciutto, mozz, whatever. They have stores. The neighbors are really nice.”

“Oh good. Will they let you pet their dawgs or mebbe ask y’all to go coon huntin’? Has they got nice chilluns? I’se talkin’ ‘bout the two-legged kind, not the fur babies.”

Mark rolled his eyes. “You have 4 dogs. You smell like dog. And you have a cat. And a snake. Our new neighbor has a turtle.”

“Did he find it in the road?”

Mark blushed a little. “Yeah, actually he calls it his ‘yard turtle’. It has a cracked shell he patched with Crazy Glue and it walks with a limp. He thinks it was hit by a car.”

“Or rolled over by a truck? Maybe a 4-wheeler?” Dennis smiled and let out smoke through his teeth.

“Very funny…Goodbye Cherry Hill and Cherry Hill Mall. Passengers, please note ahead the city of Philadelphia.”

“Fucking shithole,” Dennis muttered. He pitched his cigarette out the window.

“There are still nice parts.”

“True. But if you break down on the way to them you’ll be robbed or dead.”

“Oh come on. What about ‘Rocky’? Or the Shyamalan movies?”

“’Rocky’ was 45 years ago and Philly was largely a shithole then. Shyamalan likes the suburbs.”

“Man, you’re just full of roses and daydreams. Always positive.”

“I like some things. Baboons. Baboons are cool. And mermaids. I liked ‘The Little Mermaid.”

“That’s because she’s half naked in the water and the other half is barely dressed. Plus she’s a redhead. You’ve liked red-headed cartoons since Wilma Flintstone.”

“No, you always get that wrong. Wilma was not hot. I was hot for Josie of Josie and the Pussycats, Also Giganta from ‘Challenge of the Super Friends.’”

“That’s right.”

“That’s where the redheaded fascination truly began. Red-headed rock chick in a leopard-print outfit, then 30-foot tall redheaded chick in a leopard print outfit, then a red-head with a shell brassiere and fish fins. Endlessly hot.”

Mark shook his head. “If you ate her out you’d taste caviar.”

Dennis chuckled. “Maybe just eat the fish half. Now entering Philadelphia. One state down, two to go.”

Three hours later, after a fuel stop, Dennis was driving.

“This pretty much sums up Pennsylvania. Pittsburgh at one end, Philly at the other, jack shit in between. Nothing but mountains and hillbillies, and I get to drive through it. How is it my turn?”

“You agreed when we left. Not my fault. You’ve driven through here before, so you knew what it was like. You know back in Hamilton’s time, they called this the wild frontier. It was where the Whiskey Rebellion took place.”

“Oh thanks for that footnote. It makes it so much nicer to drive on a mountain pass without a shoulder in a janked-up moving truck. We’re inches from death. This is insane.”

“Then be careful. Onion ring?”

“Fuck no. We can’t afford for me to have grease on my fingers when I’m gripping the wheel, and those’ll kill you.”

“Cigarettes won’t?”

“The combination is no good. And fuck you. My cigarette taxes pay your bills.”

“Which bills? I don’t get government funding.”

“They paid for the grants you got to go to Princeton then.”

“I had like one scholarship for $1000 because I’m left-handed.”

“Then that’s what they paid for. You were educated by cigarettes.”

Mark chuckled. “Okay. Well my loans got the rest, plus summer jobs, school jobs, and Dad’s loans. But thanks for smoking. Your sacrifice provides a great service to our country.”

“Tobacco and petroleum fuel the economy. Tobacco stocks grow your retirement. And every time I smoke it keeps me from putting my fist through someone’s face. So don’t be holier than thou.”

Mark tried not to sigh, but measured his volume and tone. Decades of debate with Dennis proved to him there was no de-escalation. His brother was going to rant. But escalation from a rant to a tirade could be prevented.

“Look, I don’t have a 401K. I tapped it out when I lost my job two years ago. And I know what the country was built on. I also know tobacco cost me my mother, and our uncle, and I’d rather it didn’t take you. Also, when I feel like hitting a face, I write.” Despite himself, Mark felt his fingers digging into the faux leather seat. He forced them to relax and was silent.

After a while, Dennis said, “I liked the story about the pit. The asshole in that one had it coming. Good ending.”

Mark smiled. “Thanks. That was a former coworker. One of the supervisors who worked hard to get me fired. God, I hated that guy.”

“I didn’t know about the 401K.”

“Well, I didn’t tell you. You have enough to deal with every day, plunging shit and fending off desperate housewives and such. You don’t need to hear me crying. We’re Gen Xers. Never gonna retire. And why would I want to? Fuck Boca Raton or Hawaii or wherever these old fucks go. And fuck getting old. I’ll keeping writing and tutoring and working jobs I hate until I die in 10 or 20 years, who cares. Look, there’s Charleroi. I used to date a girl there when I was in DC.”

“I know. The one before Kate. She was your friend.”

“Yeah, we were friends for a long time. Excellent lay. She lives in Anchorage now.”

“Yep.” Dennis lit his last cigarette. An hour later, he said, “Now entering West Virginia. Yee haw.”

Mark was silent. Dennis looked out the side window as he drove.

“At least they have a shoulder here, and wider lanes. There’s some room for error. Ho-ly shit!”

Mark turned his head. “What?”

“Look at that! It’s a for-real bath tub in a yard. Look at that shit. Real Appalachia.”

“Car on blocks on my side. And look at that. Three houses on one lot – the new one, the old one, and the original one, now falling down.”

Dennis shook his head and looked at Mark.

“Really? This is what you really want?”

Mark shrugged. “Kate grew up around here. She’s not a hillbilly. And dude – the cost of living is so much lower here that I’ll be making less but taking home more. It’s like giving myself a $10,000 a year raise. Plus Kate’s job is better. With that, maybe we can retire.”

“Atlantic City. Ocean City. You’re a writer. You like plays. You wrote a play. Can you even see one in Wheeling? No, of course you can. Can you see one you’d want to see?”

“No,” Mark said quietly.

“What? Did you actually say it?”

Mark, slouched in his seat, looked at Dennis from the corner of his eye.

“I said, ‘No.’”

“Good,” Dennis proclaimed. “That’s it, I’m getting off at the exit.” He swerved to the right lane, then off the expressway. A few minutes later, they were in the parking lot of the I-70 West Virginia Welcome Center. Dennis put the truck in Park and turned toward his brother.

“Don’t try to tell me why this is great, or the money you’ll save, or the clean mountain streams, or the simple honest folk you’ll be living by. John Denver is dead, died in a plane crash in the ocean after smoking weed before flying. Fuck him and his country roads. Tell me why you’re here.”

Mark held his gaze, unblinking. “I came because my wife wanted to be here. She hates New Jersey. Always has. She wanted to come home.”

“I know. But you fought it for 15 years. Why come back now?”

“New start.”

Dennis tilted his head. “Really.” He paused. “I’ve seen Beth’s Messenger feed.”

Mark’s heart skipped a beat and he felt a cold jolt down his spine. His guts clenched.

“Yeah?”

Dennis’s eyes became hard. He spoke slowly.

“Why have you been messaging my wife?”

Mark smiled weakly.

“Because she’s my sister-in-law. We talk sometimes.”

“I don’t message Kate. She’s my sister-in-law. She and I say hello at holidays and if I come by the house. You sometimes message Beth every day.”

“Not for a while.”

“But you did.”

Mark was silent a moment, staring at his brother staring back at him.

“Mark you know I’m carrying a gun, right? I’m never unarmed. Any time I’m on the road I’m packing.”

“Yeah. So?” Mark felt a pulse starting in his forehead. He counted the beats. Six. It felt like an earthworm was wiggling on his skull under the skin. “I feel safer knowing you have it. You never know what happens when you’re far from home.”

Dennis nodded and smiled a bit. “’So’ as in ‘So you’d better speak carefully and not fuck with me here.’ This is my wife we’re talking about.”

“Yes it is. I’ve known her for a long time, since you were engaged. She helped me pick out Kate’s engagement ring when I got engaged, if you remember. Is there a problem?”

Dennis kept staring. “You talk to my wife more than I do. Sometimes 3 or 4 times a day when you’re talking.”

“Nothing bad.”

“No. Not that I’ve seen.”

“Have you talked to her about it?”

“I’m talking to you. I want a straight answer. You’re my brother.”

Sudden panic broke through Mark. “Don’t hurt her. Don’t touch her.”

Dennis tilted his head and smiled charmingly.

“I never have. Should I?”

“No. She’s done nothing wrong. We’ve done nothing wrong.”

Dennis smiled warmly. “Now we’re getting somewhere. So you’ve done something, but nothing wrong. Then tell me, Mark, what is it or was it that you both have done?”

“Nothing. We’ve talked. We talk. That’s it. We always have. Since you were engaged. We get along. That’s all. We get each other.”

“Uh huh. Well good, I’m glad. Family should get along. Because you’re family, right. Your sister-in-law. My wife.”

“Yeah. Your wife.”

Dennis exhaled through his nose and stared. “Do you talk about me?”

“Sometimes. Initially she asked me about you because there was stuff she didn’t get. I helped.”

“Wow, so you’re teaming up on me. When I argue with her, am I arguing with Beth or with you?”

“Her I’d expect. I’m not there.”

“But you talk about it later.”

“No. We haven’t talked about you for ages. Sometimes she’ll mention things that frustrate her and I try to get her to understand your perspective.”

“How nice. Glad you’re in my corner. You could have told me, maybe said, ‘Hey, Beth and I have been talking and…’”

Mark laughed. “Yeah that would go well.”

“You could have told me.”

“She asked me not to. She was embarrassed she had to talk to me at all. I promised. And shit, she helped me with Kate plenty. She drives me nuts.”

“I know. It’s why you talk to my wife.”

Marks guts clenched again and his blood ran cold. Dennis’s tone was warm, no edge to his voice, but Mark knew inside his brother was like a coiled clock spring. He wasn’t sure what he should say, but he knew he should say something. He tried the truth.

‘Yes,” he said.

“Well, look at that. So for what, 15 years? You have complained to me about your wife, you’ve complained to my wife about your wife, and you’ve complained to your friends about your wife. But still, here you are in West Virginia, moving with her to be with her family. Or whatever it is. And you’re fine with this. Truth.”

Mark looked at Dennis. When Dennis was mad it was unmistakable. Dennis had never hurt him, even as kids, but it didn’t mean he couldn’t do it or wouldn’t. Dennis had never hurt him because Mark had always stopped and listened to him or complied with him before Dennis flew off the handle. But Mark had seen him get suddenly, brutally violent more than once. Just two years earlier, when the two of them were at a filling station, a man at another pump had said something while Mark was pouring in wiper fluid. Dennis cold cocked the man and left him in a heap next to his car before Mark had even fully processed what was said or thought of a response. However, looking at Dennis now, Mark didn’t see the face of a jealous husband. He saw an angry but concerned loving brother. Mark closed his eyes. His face felt hot. He suddenly was very aware of Dennis’s smell in the cab of the truck. Dog, Irish Spring soap, Diet Coke, and Marlboro Reds. Without opening his eyes, Mark said quietly:

“I love her. I love Beth.”

There was the sound of something hard scraping on leather and quick movement through the air. Mark sensed an object in front of his face, then heard a clicking sound.

“What? What did you say?”

Mark swallowed. His eyes burned behind his lids. He couldn’t feel his hands.

“I love Beth. Have for a long time.”

Dennis spoke though gritted teeth and lips pulled tight in a frown.

“Motherfucker. You’re telling this to my face?”

“You wanted to know. Now you know. I love your wife. We haven’t done anything, ever. I’ve never kissed her or held her hand. I haven’t even hugged her or been alone in a room with her for years. I know she knows. I’m afraid to be around her. I don’t want to hurt you, I certainly don’t want to hurt or upset her. But having her there, in the town where I live, seeing her, but not being with her hurts. It hurts every day. I had to leave.”

He opened his eyes. The angry face of his brother was before him, as was muzzle of a .38 snub nose pistol. Mark smelled sweat, adrenaline, and gun oil.

“We did nothing. It was all me. You have nothing to worry about. Just, dude, talk to her. Spare her some time and considerations. She’s brilliant and beautiful. She’s not crazy or needy. And she loves you. What goes on in her heart and her mind I can’t even describe. She’s like a cathedral and an art museum all in one. Kate is like a fucking cracker box now. Just dry and bland. She didn’t used to be that way. You’re lucky as hell and I hope you can see it.” He looked out the window. “I didn’t want to be here. But it’s safe. It’s away.”

He looked back at Dennis. The gun was still there.

fiction
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About the Creator

Gene Lass

Gene Lass has been a writer for more than 30 years, writing and editing numerous books including non-fiction, poetry, and fiction. His short story, “Fence Sitter” was nominated for Best of the Net 2020.

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