At 25, Part 4

1996


I come home from work and see Dave sitting at the kitchen table. My night is already ruined just from having to look at him. It’s gotten to the point where I can’t stand the sight of him. I open the refrigerator, grab a can of soda, and I’m mid-guzzle when I do a double-take. I turn back to Dave. He can’t be doing what I think he’s doing. No way. My eyes are surely playing tricks. Oh, he’s doing it, all right.

Dave, my nightmare of an older brother, is smoking crack. Casually. In the kitchen. As if it’s no big deal. As if he’s just reading the fucking newspaper. He’s sucking in the drug through a small crack pipe. The pipe looks like a clear piece of plastic, burnt at one end, shaped like a cigarette. Knowing Dave, I’m sure it’s a half-assed crack pipe. It’s probably not even what you’re supposed to use to smoke crack. But I wouldn’t know. I haven’t done any hard drugs in about seven years, since that last bit of cocaine went up my nose during those crazy nights with Manny and Vito and the rest of the gang at Pizza Tent. Part of the reason I stopped doing drugs is sitting right in front of me. I didn’t want to turn out like Dave.

He’s coated with a thick layer of perspiration. His armpits are wet, the T-shirt stained, sweat droplets falling from his stubbly chin. His wavy brown hair is dirty; I can see bits of grass and leaves on his Brillo-like mane. He’s been running from someone, maybe hiding. I’m standing in the kitchen, in shock, trying to process all of this. My brother is smoking crack at the kitchen table while my mother is at work. My little brother is nearby, watching cartoons in the living room, feigning obliviousness; maybe he feels like it’s not really happening as long as he doesn’t look.

"What the hell is going on here, Dave?" I ask. I’m already shaking. Tensions have been building. I know the violence is coming. If not today, soon. Someday, there will be blood. Will be pain. When all of this comes to a head, it’s going to be me or him. The house isn’t big enough for the both of us. But I don’t want to bleed today. I also don’t want to live in a crack house. He’s disrespecting my mother. Mom’s done nothing but try to help him, and Dave’s done nothing but shit all over her.

"What I’m doing ain’t of no concern to you, nerd."

His sweat is thick. Looks gooey and kind of green under the light. Like he’s recently been swallowed and spit back out. Like snails have been crawling all over him. Like he’s been slimed.

"You’re doing drugs in Mom’s house. That makes it my business. I live here, too."

"This is my house now," he says arrogantly. "I’m the boss. Fuck you. Fuck Mom. Fuck all y’all."

He takes a hit, smiles, forgets that I’m even in the room. His rigid body loosens. He moans softly. The drug fills him with ecstacy. He’s gone. Somewhere else. Drifting away. Head back. Eyes closed. Visibly Euphoric. I wonder where he’s gone. I wonder where the smoke takes him. His mouth falls open. A thin line of drool leaks out. He wipes away his dripping saliva without opening his eyes.

I walk into the living and tell my little brother to go upstairs. He nods, glances at Dave, sighs with disgust, then runs up the steps. William is a good kid. He’s seven years younger than me. Mom’s baby. No matter how old he gets, William will always be Mom’s baby boy. I wouldn’t want to be anyone’s baby. I’m glad I was the fourth of five. William reads philosophy books and likes to think that he’s smarter than the rest of us. I don’t have the heart to tell him he’s wrong. We’re all the same here, under this roof; we’re all just white trash children; we’re just brothers who grew up poor and had to have our heads scraped with a metal comb to remove the head lice every so often, brothers who’ve killed our fair share of cockroaches, who’ve had to suffer the embarrassment of flashing our Free Lunch Cards in front of our friends. Someday, William may indeed make something of his life; I might do the same; but at this moment we’re all just prisoners in Dave’s makeshift crack house. Our home is a drug den. Our brother is no longer our brother. He’s something else entirely. I don’t know what. But it sure isn’t pretty.

I walk back to the kitchen. The room stinks like barbecued dirty socks. Like burnt hair. Like melted plastic. With every hit off the pipe, Dave’s shirt grows more damp. If he keeps this up, he’s going to drown. His eyes roll up in his head when he inhales the drug. The crack cocaine is his best friend. I am not his friend. I think right now Dave hardly even recognizes me. I’m just a guy trying to kill his buzz. He has three little girls, and his girlfriend is about to give birth to a fourth. His lady is ready to burst. She’s a big girl naturally, but with-child she’s positively enormous. Last time I saw her, she looked like she was about to explode like something out of a Monty Python film. He should be buying his girls clothes and toys, should be giving them a wonderful life; instead, all of his money is spent chasing that high.

Dave rises from the chair, walks to the kitchen, pulls out a small, sharp knife, then sits back down at the table with the knife now resting by the crack pipe. He takes another hit, the last, I’d gather, since the product seems to have run out.

"What are you planning on doing with that knife?" I ask. My heart beats against my chest with rapid fury. My hands are shaking. I want to be a superhero. I want to save the day. I want to throw Dave’s ass out onto the street and show him who’s boss. I want to prove my manhood. It would be a lot easier to do that if I didn’t feel like such a scared little boy. If I didn’t want so badly to run and hide in the closet.

"Say another fucking word to me and I’ll show you what I’m gonna do with the knife."

"So now you’re going to stab me with a knife?"

His hand creeps toward the knife. Caresses the wooden handle. He smiles. Dave is treating the knife like some beloved pet.

There’s a knock at the door. Loud, urgent.

Dave grabs his drug supplies and shoves everything into his pockets. Pipe, baggy, lighter, tin foil, paper clip, all of it. "Shit," he says. "Tell ‘em to go away, Erv." He gets a solid grip on the knife, as if ready to strike, in case he needs to stab a motherfucker, I guess.

I walk to the door and open it. Dave’s girlfriend is standing before me, both hands against her enormous belly. Her eyes are nothing but blank, gray sadness. This is her lot in life. That’s her man with the crack pipe in his pocket. Her three children are flanked behind her, holding tightly to her thick legs. She’s all they have.

I feel very sorry for them, for the little girls, because their father is my brother. And my brother is the worst person I know.

"Is Dave in there?" Pregnant Mommy asks. "We gotta get to the hospital. I’m gonna have the baby now. I know he’s in there."

I look past her and see a waiting taxi.

I am not a man without fear, quite the contrary, but I do what must be done. When I take the knife from Dave, I’m trembling. He wouldn’t stab me, right? He’s my brother. Brothers don’t stab brothers, right? He gives it up easily enough, and I put the knife back in the drawer. I knew I had to take the knife from him, knew he wasn’t going to cut me. Someday, maybe, but not today. Still, I shake. I know I’ll be shaking for hours to come.

"She’s having her baby now, Dave. You’ve got to get her to the hospital."

"Eat shit and die, faggot," Dave says, shoving me aside.

He walks outside, slams the kitchen door shut behind him. Through the door, I can hear screaming. A minute later, Dave walks back inside.

"Can I borrow forty bucks?" he asks. "I need to pay the taxi driver and get her to the hospital."

I give him the money. Then I grab a can of air freshener and go about the task of turning this crack house back into a home.

"Sorry about all that," Dave says, his hand on the doorknob. "You knew I wasn’t going to hurt you, right? I’m your brother. I’m sorry, man. I was an asshole. Come on, brother, say something."

I refuse to look at him.

"You’re not even my real brother," I say. "You’re only my half-brother."

"Oh, so that’s how it is now, huh?"

"Yup, that’s how it is."

A second later, I hear the door slam. I look out the window and watch the taxi pull away. I’m hoping Dave never comes back. I don’t think I want him to die—I just want to make it so he never existed in the first place. Have him zapped out of existence. But that’s rather difficult to achieve, especially since I don’t know any wizards, mad scientists, genies, or megalomaniacal comic book super-villains.