Memoirs Of An Antihero

by Drew Blank

  Jim and Phil lived in a small second story apartment a few blocks down Byrne Avenue from Mama Mema’s. The apartment was still in Jim’s grandmother’s name, who had passed away seven years earlier. She had been Jim’s guardian, but they were never terribly close. It wasn’t that Jim had a bad relationship with his grandmother, he was just never terribly close with anyone. After she passed, Phil moved in to allow him and Jim even more time for their role-playing games. Within a week it had become apparent they were not a good match as cohabitants of the tiny brownstone apartment, but neither were motivated enough to change the situation. Seven years later, the two socially awkward geniuses had turned friendly bickering into a lifestyle defining sport.

  Although the pain had begun creeping back to my chest and the adrenaline that kept moving me forward had long left my system, I decided to stop by Jim and Phil’s place, just to see what had Phil at his “wit’s end”. I had no intention of refereeing their argument, but I was hoping to give them a break from verbal battle with news of my evening’s activities. Unlike Tom, I knew Jim and Phil would not see this as a jumping off point to righting the wrongs of the city. Other than going to work, my two reclusive friends rarely left their apartment. I had a feeling they didn’t care what happened outside, as long as it didn’t come into their seven hundred square foot world. A few minutes after getting hung up on by an indignant Phil, I was at the front door of their old brick building, ringing up on the intercom to be let in. Without a word being said, the door buzzed and I entered.

  The staircase leading up to their apartment made no effort to hide its age. Paint was peeling off in sheets and I am sure it was the good old-fashioned toxic lead based kind. Graffiti was scribbled all over the walls, but nothing artistic or profound. Just a sign that through the years several bored teens had access to these stairs and a few permanent markers. The brownstone divided into four apartments, two downstairs and two upstairs. At the top of the steps, to the right, I saw their apartment door left wide open to grant me entry. With no door to dampen the sound, I was sure every tenant in the building could hear Phil. Once reaching the top of the stairs, I saw myself in and politely closed the door behind me.

  Upon entering the living room through the front door, I surveyed the area for signs of a disturbance. Looking around the place, I immediately deduced what the night’s battle was about. Having spent most of my free time hanging out in that apartment, it was not a challenge to notice when something had changed. Phil and Jim were not terribly concerned with the aesthetics of their domicile, so furniture was rarely, if ever, moved. Piles of clutter were never cleaned away, only added to. A thorough dusting would probably have been the most noticeable change. While their apartment looked like the Taj Mahal next to the shoebox above Mema’s kitchen that I called home, it was still cramped.

  Three walls of the living room were covered, floor to ceiling, by several different styles of shelving units. Every unit was littered with hundreds of books. There was neither rhyme nor reason to the order those books were in, but if you were to ask Phil or Jim to locate one for you, I would wager they could find it without any difficulty. There were fantasy and science fiction books interspersed with textbooks and electronics manuals. Hard covers and paperbacks were randomly shelved on antique oak cabinets or piled carefully on metal and ply-wood frames more commonly seen in a garage or a tool shed. You would be hard pressed to find any book in their vast collection that ended in “for dummies”. There were computer books based on operating systems older than I was and engineering books covering processes I had no chance of ever comprehending. Unlike most pack rats that

  compile massive collections such as theirs, every one of these books had been read and well worn.

  In the middle of the room were two enormous oak computer desks, butted up against one another. Each desk was piled high with papers, files and even more books. Phils’s desk housed his massive 31-inch flat screen computer monitor, wireless keyboard and mouse and countless gadgets with origins and uses that were foreign to me. Phil may have at some point tried to tell me what the items were, but whenever he or Jim started to get too technical, I tended to drift off and simply nod my head, mumbling the random “uh huh” or “that’s cool”. The fact that there were actually people in the world that had absolutely no interest in these things eluded Jim and Phil. As a good friend should, I humored them and feigned a mild curiosity.

  Jim’s desk was in the same state of disarray as Phil’s, mirrored with computer equipment that most would assume had lost its relevance twenty years prior. His monitor had a screen size half that of Phil’s, but in its manila casing was twice the size and at least ten times as heavy. His yellowed keyboard rested on the desktop next to an almost outdated trackball. While he was hooked up to use Phil’s lightning fast color laser printer, Jim still had a clunky dot matrix model sitting next to his monitor, which he insisted had countless uses in applications regarding his work. Jim was a machinist by trade. What that meant was pretty much a mystery to me, because when he would talk about it, the subject would always be at great length and boring beyond words. Twisty had noted on several occasions how amazing it was that I managed to maintain such close friendships with both Jim and Phil when it was obvious we had absolutely nothing in common. I simply chalked it up to none of us knowing any better.

  Beneath the desks sat three very large computers, all opened up exposing hard drives and circuitry. A chaotic mess of cables snaked all throughout the networked machines, each starting at an indistinguishable point and spreading to various destinations either on the desktop or somewhere throughout the apartment, getting lost amidst the clutter. A cacophony of whirring fans and chirping sensors constantly streamed from beneath their workplace. I did not know much about computers, or electronics for that matter, but the snafu of cables that rested at their feet seemed to pose a hefty fire hazard.

  Everything seemed relatively normal that night as I entered the apartment. Phil’s desk was littered with empty glass steins that had once been filled with iced tea. He used them to keep himself hydrated while spending countless hours on the computer playing online games. Jim’s work area sported a similar collection of debris in the form of Mountain Dew bottles and Twizzler wrappers. If one of the two had actually invented an office chair with a toilet attachment, making it possible for them to never leave their computers, I would not have been surprised. Necessity is, after all, the mother of invention, although I doubt wheeled toilets were what Plato had in mind when he spoke those famous words.

  The only thing that stood out as I entered the apartment that evening was the absence of a framed movie poster that was normally displayed opposite the front door, hanging snugly between two of the shelving units. Any part of the apartment that was not covered by bookshelves was still decorated in the manner of a retired old widow, as Jim never made any effort to change the furnishings after his grandmother had passed. Phil contributed very little to the decor when he moved in except for one framed piece of art that Jim had always detested. It was a replica of the original Planet of the Apes movie poster. Phil received it as a child and it had always been proudly displayed over his bed. It wasn’t until later, when Phil had come out of the closet, that he came to a realization. His attachment to the poster may not have been simply for the film it advertised, but maybe also for the shirtless Charlton Heston proudly displaying his manly chest as he is being wrestled to the ground by two ape soldiers. While the poster didn’t make him gay, it certainly explained a lot about his affinity towards an advertisement for

  a movie he only somewhat liked. That night, however, the poster was gone.

  The two were perched at their desks, leaning back in their computer chairs, glaring at one another. The stare-down was not interrupted by the slam of the front door. While most of their battles were petty, and typically blown out of proportion by Phil’s love for antagonizing Jim, this one seemed to be more serious than most, which still was not saying much. Phil swiveled in his chair, making ha
lf circles clockwise, then back counter-clockwise, all the while not breaking his concentrated stare on Jim.

  Phil was a big guy. Not Tattoo Tom big, but fluffy. Standing even with me, but weighing in closer to two hundred and sixty pounds, he was best described by Twisty as cuddly. Before admitting to the world his love for men and all things fabulous, he was the stereotypical computer geek; style was secondary to comfort and convenience. All of his clothes were made of the telltale materials only used for fat guy apparel at Big&Tall shops. His thick head of sandy blonde hair was usually three months late for a haircut and always parted from the left to the right in a very pronounced divide. He never appeared dirty, just slovenly. In hindsight, it was obvious to see he was trying to hide who he was. He feared any appreciation for fashion or style may be a red flag to his gaming buddies that he wasn’t getting as much out of the Princess Leia slave scene in Return of the Jedi as the rest of them were. In reality, when he sent Jim and me an email with the subject line ‘Oh, by the way…’, revealing his long hidden secret, it came as no shock.

  As much as his coming out did not surprise us, it was very much an awakening for Phil. He began to shop online for trendy clothes that would fit his portly figure. His hair was always salon fresh with the perfect flip gelled into every frosted tip. The apartment even began to take on the smell of his ever growing collection of expensive, but not obnoxiously overpowering, colognes. Phil exuded a new confidence that was very obvious in his demeanor. With more fluidity in his motions and added grace in his step, he wore inner peace well. While his appearance and attitude changed severely, his lifestyle did not. Late nights on the computer playing online games with adversaries halfway across the globe were not replaced with evenings on the town trolling for men. Phil admitted to himself and all the people close to him his inner desires and that seemed to be enough. He never actively sought out a boyfriend or any friends sharing his same-gender affinity, and he seemed okay with that.

  “So, where’s Chuck?” Breaking the silence in the room seemed like a dangerous move, but I really just wanted to get this over with so I could discuss my evening and then get to bed. Exhaustion had truly begun to set in, and as Phil looked at me I immediately wondered to myself if this could have waited for the next day.

  “The hate monger over here decided Mr. Heston was too homo-centric for his tastes.” Phil pointed accusingly at Jim, as if I would suspect he was talking about anybody else.

  “I never used the term homo-centric.” That was the first time I had heard Jim’s dreary, monotone voice all day. He was obviously growing very tired of this argument as he sat and twirled the end of his dark goatee between thumb and index finger. “I simply said it was a little too gay for my tastes and I was sick of looking at it.”

  “Oh, and doilies on the end tables are not gay?” Phil snapped back with an argument I was sure had already been used, but was making a second go around for my benefit.

  “I already told you those were my grandmother’s and I just haven’t gotten around to taking them off.” If I hadn’t know Jim as well as I did I would have suspected the doilies and the rest of the old lady tchotchkes were left there for some sentimental reason. In reality, I knew they remained simply because Jim had no desire to waste his time with anything that did not involve his work or online gaming. What some may have interpreted as laziness was, in fact, more obsessive focus than anything else. It was the same reason we never saw Jim wearing anything but his work uniform or some variation of it. His entire wardrobe consisted of a half dozen light blue cotton work shirts with his name embroidered on the front patch, a half dozen plain gray t-shirts and half as many tattered blue jeans. Jim insisted no matter how dirty he got at work, he could get two wearings out of a pair of jeans. This limited selection simplified Jim’s life and allowed him time for the things that really mattered to him.

  “Well, maybe I’ll just take all the damn doilies and throw them away,” Phil threatened.

  “Go for it.” Jim called his bluff, knowing full well Phil rather liked the doilies.

  They continued to go through the motions of an argument that had obviously died down hours earlier and was only being resuscitated upon my arrival. Ignoring the bickering, I stepped up to their workspace, reached into my pocket and pulled out the wad of money I hadn’t even taken time to examine since stuffing it away earlier in the evening. With my arm outstretched, I dropped the cash onto the desks. The rolled bills made a loud thud, wet and heavy with sweat. My over the top gesture made an impression. Both Phil and Jim simultaneously quieted as the cash hit the desktops.

  “If I agree to buy Mr. Heston a shirt, can we please put this argument to rest?” I half jokingly pleaded. Without an answer, the subject had officially been changed.

  “Holy shit!” Phil’s jaw dropped as he gazed upon the money. “Is that what you made tonight?”

  “In a sense, yes,” I teasingly responded.

  “I have to start waiting tables,” Jim chimed in, more serious than not.

  “No shit,” Phil agreed.

  “Well, it isn’t exactly from waiting tables.” I picked the rolled bills back up and began to unbind them. Thumbing through the stack, I realized there were more hundreds in there than I would have suspected. A chill ran through my body as it occurred to me I had several thousand dollars in my hands.

  “So are you a stripper now?” Phil’s curiosity was obviously eating at him and I did not have the stamina to lead him on. It was essential I get myself into bed soon as I was on the verge of collapse.

  “I don’t know many places where they tip strippers with hundreds,” Jim snapped back at Phil in a naturally argumentative tone.

  “Been to a lot of gay strip clubs, have you, Mr. Doilie?” Phil shot back.

  “No. It’s not from stripping,” I quickly squelched their back and forth. “I kinda got into a fight tonight.” With that statement Phil and Jim both took a moment to examine me a little further. Being so wrapped up in their squabble, it had escaped both their attention that I was a mess.

  “A fight?” Phil was dumbfounded. “Who the hell do you fight and then walk away with a huge wad of hundreds?”

  “A pimp?” Jim made a guess.

  “Close. A drug dealer.” The words escaped my lips in a tone that could not be mistaken for a joke. “The bartender at my work was meeting with his supplier after our shift. I decided to intercept the exchange.” With that, I motioned to the cash that Jim had started flipping through his fingers, counting.

  “I also got this for you.” I tossed Mouse’s cell phone to Phil, assuming he would love a new toy.

  “What’s this?” He asked.

  “The dude’s phone. I took it. Didn’t really want him calling anyone when I was breaking his legs with the car door,” I filled them in nonchalantly.

  “Jesus Christ! What is wrong with you? These things have GPS systems in them! They could be tracking you right now!” Phil immediately went to work on the phone, disassembling its casing.

  “Did you say you broke his legs with a car door?” The fact that there was not more shock or awe in Jim’s voice when he asked this should have concerned me a little. At that point in our friendship, I suppose nothing I did would have surprised them.

  “Well, I might have. I wouldn’t have taken it that far, but he just wouldn’t stay down. He was a fighter.” I continued to give them the rundown on the evening’s events, while Phil tinkered with the cellular and Jim laid the cash out in piles, counting it.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  $7,462. That was how much money was splayed across Jim’s desk upon final count. Phil had made quick work of any tracking device that may have been in Mouse’s phone. He then proceeded to put it back together with the intent of doing a little snooping through the personal information within. While I found very little in the Audi, I suspected Phil’s search would not turn up as fruitless.

  “So will this cover Moxie’s treatments?” Jim asked, tying a rubber band around a stack of hundreds.


  “I’m not even sure what kind of treatments she is going to need yet. But I doubt this is going to be enough. I am sure it will help for now, though.” The fact that even that huge pile of cash was not going to help out too much was very disheartening. “We have an appointment with her oncologist today to find out what the next step is. At least I can cover the co-pay in cash.” I chuckled in an attempt to distract myself from the overwhelming responsibility.

  “You know,” Phil joined the conversation, not looking up from the phone, “there is more where that came from.”

  “I thought about that, but I sorta lucked out on this one. It was a fluke that I knew when and where it was all going down,” I admitted.

  “This time it was a fluke.” Phil then looked up at me pointing a tiny screwdriver in my direction, “next time, it will be because you have access to Mouse’s emails and texts.” With a very satisfied grin on his face, Phil leaned back in his chair holding up the phone he had been tinkering with, tapping the back with his index finger.

  “You really think he’s not going to cancel that phone’s service as soon as he gets home? C’mon.” Jim immediately shot down Phil’s plan.

  “Why don’t you stick to doing whatever it is you do, Mr. Machinist, and let the grownups handle the real work? I am not employed as a securities consultant by one of the largest cellular phone companies in the world for my cherubic good looks.” Phil confidently rose to his feet and began to outline his plan. “True, Mouse will no doubt cancel service as soon as he gets the chance. However, he has service with the same large cellular phone company that employs me.”

  “He’s got MobilCom?” I asked, curious as to where Phil was going with this.

  “Indeed.” Phil was grinning from ear to ear.

  “So, you can clone the phone, then?” Jim began to understand where Phil was going. I was still rather clueless.

  “Not exactly. The SIM card in his phone will be rendered useless as soon as he reports it stolen, no matter what I do.”