By: Jacob Uitti In a reoccurring dream someone says, "A body is like a city. Given time it can completely blur together." There was a knock on my door which woke me. I took my time answering; putting on clothes. I walked to the door. On the other side was a man holding a letter. "Mr. Chievers?" "Yes." "Mr. Chievers, I have a letter from Manhattan Hospital. It's addressed to you. Urgent, it says." "Thank you." I waved, turning around and closing the door. I don't enjoy people, and don't keep a phone. There is little worse than a ringing telephone. The letter was from a hospital. My brother had been admitted there several months ago with cancer. It was in his skin and spreading. Eric Chievers- Your number is unlisted, we tried to call. Your brother, David, has taken a severe turn for the worse. He requests that you come visit him before his time is gone. Our best, Dr. Anderson, MD Manhattan Hospital I thought that I should shower before I left. And find my vodka. The train into the city is better with liquor. After my shower, I dressed. Fresh t-shirt, gray socks, faded green pants. I tied the laces of my boots and put on a hooded sweatshirt. I looked around the room: wallet, keys, cigarettes, lighter. Finally, I poured what was left of Schlott's Vodka into an empty water bottle and left. The air outside was crisp. I went into a convenience store and bought a Royal Crown cola. Despite the poster, I didn't feel like a king. I walked to the train station smoking a cigarette. I thought about David. He was five years older than me, and my only brother. We used to have sock wars in the hallways when we were much younger. He taught me how to play, and let me win sometimes. When our father went out looking for us, Dave used to tell me to hide. I hid in the shoe-closet for hours. He would come back bruised. He made sure I stayed safe. It got worse when he went to college. I had to stay away from the house. "Sleepovers," my friends' parents were nice. Dave never forgot my birthday though. Once he sent me a wrapped Campbell's Soup box, with a digital watch hidden inside. The note said: Did you really think that I'd just get you soup? Happy Birthday. Love, Dave. I got to the station. At the ticket window sat a slender, brown haired black woman with beautiful eyes. She smiled as she cocked her head to the left. "May I help you?" I thought for a second she might really be able to. I bought a round-trip ticket to New York. And thanked her. I wanted to thank her for my fantasy, as well. The train was rolling into the station as she handed me my change. I got in. I took the first open seat I saw. Across the aisle two Asian girls sat down. They looked like students. One was tall and slender with waste-length brown hair. The other was shorter, fatter, and wouldn't shut up. "I hate the city." The short girl snorted. "Why?" "It's too big, too crowded, too loud, too… everything. You know?" She counted these off with her fingertips. She said it as if she were right. As if something could be too everything. Fear is easy. My brother used to tell me that people were scared of themselves. That since they see all of their own mistakes, they're paranoid that they'll keep making more and everyone will notice them. That everyone tends to just give up themselves to fit in. That's why they all end up wearing the same clothes. Why all the music on the radio sounds the same. He said that those people don't challenge anything. They don't grow. He told me people feared change, and they hate those that defy insecurities. "I don't know. I mean it does have everything." The taller one said. "Yeah, I mean, I could like it if I had to. It's just, I don't know." "Yeah." The tall one reiterated. "I love it. It's so much fun." "Yeah, I mean I guess I like the city. Like for special days, maybe. I just don't want to get mugged shopping around stores. We aren't gonna get mugged, are we?" She acted as if she was hot stuff. I stopped listening. I decided to take out my bottles. Dave and I used to play cards with the neighbors in the summers. We stayed up till three, drinking and listening to The Rolling Stones. Sometimes I would write lines about it, and leave the papers out for him to read. When our parents divorced he went with dad and I went with mom. He felt bad for our old man. Dave got skin-cancer less than a month after the divorce, around the time dad's liver failed. No one knew why. Mom stays at home all the time now. And I'm at school, trying to learn. I think his body finally gave in when dad died. He was so used to the abuse-I didn't want to see him like that. He must've never felt right without it. I'll never know for sure why he went with dad. I think he thought he could help him. Deep down, Dave loved him. I wanted to be different. So we parted ways. I could feel the tracks below our car, and the humming sound they made was soothing. The vodka was cool and so was the soda. When I drink I like to swish the booze around in my mouth before I swallow. It kind of burns. I can feel tiny little sores in my mouth, from where a cracker cut the gums on the way down, or where I bit my cheek. The vodka mixes with the wounds and catalyses something new. It takes me away from the fat Asian girl across from me, away from cancer. I saw a car from my window. It was this long, stretched car. Yellow. I could see the driver and the passenger. An old couple. A man and a woman. Their hub-caps were shinny, and all four windows were rolled up. In the back there was a For Sale sign; one of the black and red signs you can pick up at a hardware store cheap. I wondered why they were selling the car. The man looked proud to be driving in it. It was big, and old. The woman looked comfortable too (she was quiet, maybe pensive). This car could have been their pride and joy, the one thing left after the kids had moved out, and the dog passed. But it was for sale. Available to anyone. Maybe they needed the money. Maybe they had three more cars at home, and this one was the least |
precious. No, they seemed happy in it; it was theirs. But now it could be mine. I could take it for the right price.
I took another sip from the bottle. I began to feel better. Things seemed to matter less. It's what alcohol is best at. We were pulling into Newark, one stop from New York City. I capped my bottles. I closed my eyes, and rested my head against the wall of the train. I tried to block out the conversations across from me. I tried to block out everything just for a moment. I started thinking about a girl I used to be with. She was everything to me. She dated my best friend for two years before I swept her off her feet (that's what I like to think). She's visiting him at his school now though. What the fuck am I supposed to think about that? I mean, she still calls me. She still says she loves me. But she's down there with him. I spent months with her getting her through her pain of him. Her pain of their break-up. Her pain with the way he never let her come out to parties. And now that she's through that. Through her pain. She went back to see him. They're friends now. I wish I could tell her he used to cheat on her. She has no idea. He used to get his dick sucked by some skinny white girl in his dorm while they were still together. She'd kill me if she found that out. How could you have kept this from me? She'd probably say. But she's happy now right? Oblivious of cold truth. And I'm the dick for getting mad at her. I do my best to find humor in that. Ten minutes went by, and I heard the train slow to a stop. New York, Penn Station. New York. The conductor regurgitated through the inter-com. I got up and stepped off the train. There were possibilities ahead of me. Cities have that advantage, and the fat girl had no idea about it. She did her best to stay inside the soap bubble she'd created. She made me want to see Dave. We stopped talking to one another after our parents divorced. I couldn't understand why he went with dad. He drifted away from me, trying to help our father, forgetting about himself. I tried to find his logic, but couldn't, and drifted away myself. Protected. Penn Station is big, and full of people. My eyes moved as I walked through the tunnels to all the gorgeous women. New York is full of women. They have tight expensive jeans, brown leather coats, boots, and this walk. It might not even be a walk. Bounce and glide. Bounce and glide. The stone tiles in the station echo. You can hear the heals hit with each step. Even New York's finest take a few moments to stop and tip their hats, "Hello". Who are these people? As a kid I revered them. Thinking I would never be able to be as competent as them. As beautiful as them. As talented as them. Then I started learning. I began to realize that some of these people are barely conscious of themselves. Most have no idea what they like. Most follow orders. Most are scared. The underbelly is just as important as the clothes, I thought. I left the station and walked to the street. I tried to hail a cab, but as soon as my arm went up a whistle blew. A man in a uniform looked at me, blew his whistle again, and motioned for me to get in a line. I looked around. He was talking to me. I got into line. I've learned to hate uniforms; cotton boundary lines. I eventually got a taxi. I told the driver to take me to "Manhattan Hospital." "Manhattan Hospital?" The driver repeated. "Yes." "Somebody sick?" "My brother. He has cancer." "May God bless him," he said. I didn't understand why he'd care. "Thanks." The drive was quick, and the driver knew how to weave. Every time I get into a cab I think about this joke of Jerry Seinfeld's, When you're in a cab you find yourself looking out the window and saying, "I sure wouldn't be doing this in my car." Meanwhile the guy has your life in his hands, and its all one big joke. It might have been the driver's fault, or his skill. But sitting back as he maneuvered made me feel relaxed. The city flew by me like a sheet of colorless buildings. It was easy, like a painless shot to the arm. I thought about what Dave would tell me if I told him about it. He would say, "If you think about it, man, ease isn't that good. You gotta look out for the hard things, the challenges." I'm not sure if he ever relaxed enough. The driver let me off stepping up to the hospital doors. I realized that I didn't even know his name. The doors were huge, and made of glass. The inside of the building was clean. Everything was buffed, and all the furniture smelled like lemons. I approached the front desk: a big brown slab of table set off to the left just before the elevators. "Hello, I'm looking for David Chievers' room." "Okay, and who are you?" the female intern said. "I'm his brother. A doctor sent me a letter... I'm supposed to be here today." "He's in room 114, on the first floor. Take a right there, and it's the third door on your left." The halls were very clean too. They were black marble with little lines of green swirling through them. The doors lined the walls like an office building, and on each door was a place for the patient's chart. Everything was in order. When I opened the door, there was David in his bed. Dying. A nurse was just leaving. She gave me a smile, and touched my shoulder. She must have thought we looked alike. The chart she was clutching covered her chest and neck. I went to David. I touched his forehead, he had a fever. His head was turned to the other side, but when he felt me he looked over. I was so sad. "Eric." David struggled a bit. "You got the letter." He smiled. "Yes, this morning. How do you feel?" I said, not taking my eyes off him. "I've missed you, Eric." He paused. "Bring me anything good?" "No. I didn't." I was really sorry I hadn't. "Are you still writing?" he asked me. "A little bit. Nothing great." "Who says?" "Dave, the letter said things have gotten worse." "Sit down, I feel okay." I took a step closer. "I'm sorry I haven't been more in touch Dave. I was stupid." "Why?" "For everything. I've wasted all this time. With nothing. I didn't even bring you anything." "It's alright, Eric. I've been gone too, there's still time." I dragged a chair next to his metal hospital bed from the corner and sat down as the sun began setting in his window. I placed my hand on his wrist. We watched the colors change in the sky like leaves in fall, before night. I can remember each one so clearly. |