My Brother's Bad Best Friend

by B. B. Hamel

It was raining and I was bored. We were at Jane’s parents’ place over at the north tip of La Jolla, this big, expansive mansion overlooking the ocean. The guys had been drinking steadily since early in the afternoon, but we had to move everything inside once the drizzle turned into a downpour.

  The sun set and I had a couple vodka cranberries, listening to Sylvia complain about her housekeeper again, and I felt this inexplicable wave of misery. Looking back, it’s hard to explain, but I felt like my whole world was about to come crashing down.

  “I gotta find Nathan,” I said to her, getting up abruptly. “Sorry, Syl. We’ll talk later.”

  “Uh, whatever, sure.” She gave me a dirty look. I didn’t know she hated me at the time, but it’s obvious now.

  I walked away and found Nathan working on another beer while playing beer pong with a few guys. I tugged his arm like a pathetic puppy dog. “Can we go talk?” I whispered in his ear.

  “Hold on, can it wait? I’m winning.” His eyes were glazed, unfocused.

  I shook my head, a whine creeping into my voice. When I think about the person I was back then, I can’t believe nobody punched me in the face and told me to grow the fuck up.

  “Please? Let’s go for a drive, please? I need to get out of here.”

  His eyes screwed up, looking at me. I knew he was drunk, but for the life of me, I have no clue what I was thinking begging him to go for a drive.

  I just couldn’t take it anymore. I was bored and miserable and hated everyone, including myself. We were all so vapid, so empty. Parties, drinking, drugs. I didn’t touch the drugs, but I did everything else.

  I got closer to him, whispered in his ear. “I’ll make it worth it.”

  I want to throw up now, just thinking about that moment. His eyes lit up. I know he wanted me to suck his dick, probably while he was driving. That’s not what caused the accident, though. That was his fault, his stupid drunken fault, but I was the one that made us leave the party to begin with. It was my fault, all my fault.

  At least that’s what I kept telling myself for a while. Eventually though, I came to an understanding. It wasn’t my fault, or at least not totally. Nathan should have known he couldn’t go for a drive. He should have thought a little bit, instead of getting all excited for a stupid blowjob. He risked his life for it, and in the end, it wasn’t worth it.

  I wasn’t worth it.

  I sigh and shake my head, pushing the memories away. It’s dangerously close to reliving the actual accident, and I’m not ready for that. I’m not sure I ever will be.

  I force myself into the shower, washing away the bad memories. I try not to linger too long in there, since I feel like I’m invading foreign territory. Jonas’s beard trimmer, dental floss, and fingernail clippers are all neatly lined up along the sink, while my brother’s towel is thrown haphazardly into the corner.

  I can picture Jonas stepping out of the shower, water running in little rivulets down his tattooed, muscular body. He reaches for his towel, but before he can cover himself, I step into the room, and—

  I have to bite my bottom lip. I can’t be fantasizing about Jonas. I have a vague memory from last night, my brother being annoyed that Jonas and I got home late. The two men argued out on the porch and then… Jonas left? I frown a little bit. I thought I imagined all that in my drug-addled mind, but now it seems like it was real.

  I get dressed and find myself back on the couch in my little nest, staring at the TV. I could easily waste the day like this watching old The Office reruns on Netflix, but Michael Scott’s not going to help figure out what I’m supposed to do with myself. I groan a little bit, forcing myself to my feet, and I head to the door. I decide to go to the only place that makes any sense right now: Half Pipe.

  I’m sweating when I finally spot the shop halfway down the block. I have to walk everywhere, since I don’t have a car and I don’t have any money for bus fare. It’s a real pain in the ass, not having any money. I slow my pace as I make my way toward the parking lot and realize that I recognize the car in the corner closest to me, in a little blind spot, tucked away from the shop itself. You’d only notice it if you approached from foot at this angle because of the way the trees and bushes flank the lot.

  It’s Ezra’s car, and he’s sitting on his hood, talking to a group of guys. I don’t recognize any of them, but Ezra’s clearly nervous. I start toward him, walking slowly. Something in my gut tells me to turn around and pretend like I never saw this, but I can’t help it. I’m attracted and repelled, both sides of the magnet. I know this is probably dangerous, but that’s my brother over there, so how dangerous could it be?

  I stop near a group of bushes and peer through, watching as Ezra hands one of the guys a thick envelope. The guy glances inside it, nods once, and hands it over to another man, this one taller than the others. They’re all dark-skinned, maybe South American of some sort, but they’re dressed in business suits which actually makes them stand out even more. There’s a large Latino population in San Diego, so it wouldn’t be strange for Ezra to have some dealings with Latino men. It’s more the way they hold themselves, aloof but alert, and the suits.

  Who wears a suit in the middle of the afternoon in San Diego? I guess they could be regular businessmen, but I get the distinct impression that they aren’t.

  I inch my way closer. The tall man, his dark hair cropped close and his eyes covered with sunglasses, reaches into the trunk of the car next to Ezra’s and produces a briefcase. He hands it to my brother, who takes it and looks a little relieved. He pops open the latches and opens it up. I crane my neck to see what’s inside.

  Someone’s hand grabs my shoulder. I jump and whirl, hands up and ready to scratch out the bastard’s eyes. I expect a suit-wearing Latino man, but instead it’s Jonas, giving me this intense stare.

  “Quiet,” he hisses, and grabs my upper arm. “Come with me.”

  “What are you doing?”

  He doesn’t wait to hear my response. He pulls me along behind him, tugging me forward and away from what’s happening in the lot. We walk the long way around the building before we finally head inside, into the wonderful air conditioning.

  He brings me down the back hall and into a side room. It’s clearly his office, based on the desk and how neat everything is. There’s a bank of security cameras on one end, the monitors showing the café, the weed shop, and a few other rooms I don’t recognize. Standing toward the back behind his desk are several big, heavy safes.

  “Sit,” he commands, releasing my arm finally. I rub it a little bit, even though it doesn’t hurt.

  “Why did you just pull me away?” I ask him.

  “Because you were about to do something stupid.”

  “No, I wasn’t,” I argue, jaw clenching.

  “Sit,” he says again. He takes a seat at the other side of the desk with a sigh, scratching his beard and eyeing me.

  I finally sit down. “I wasn’t going to do anything,” I say. “I was just watching.”

  “Which is stupid in and of itself,” he responds. “Do you have any clue who those guys were?”

  I hesitate. I have some guesses, but do I really want to say it? “No,” I lie, shaking my head.

  “Yeah, you do. You’re not stupid, Lizzie.”

  I narrow my gaze at him. “Drug dealers,” I say finally. “They reminded me of you.”

  He laughs a little bit, ignoring the intended insult. “Hardly. Those guys are way out of my league.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, genuinely curious.

  “Your brother’s in some deep shit.” He sighs, looking away toward the security monitors. “And he’s fucking stupid for coming here.”

  “Who are those guys?” I ask, feeling a little panic rising. “Should we call the police?”

  He snorts a little. “No, not unless we want Ezra to get killed.” He sighs and meets my gaze. “Those guys are the real deal, a bunch of Peruvian drug smugglers that don’t fuck around with the likes of Ezra. Normally, at least
.”

  I stare back at him, not sure I understand. “Drug smugglers?”

  “I’d call them cartel, but that’s a Mexican thing. They’re a gang, a mafia, that sort of shit. They bring drugs into the States and they get stupid gringos like E to sell them.”

  “My brother’s selling drugs?” The words sound distant, almost impossible. I never would have guessed that Ezra would get involved with real, dangerous drug smugglers. I mean, I can see him working with Jonas, but Jonas is… well, he’s not deadly. Dangerous maybe, and an asshole, but not deadly. These guys though…

  “How haven’t you noticed?” he asks, and then shakes his head. “I guess that’s not fair. Your brother hasn’t exactly been trying his hardest to get to know you these last few years.”

  I wince a little bit. Ezra and I don’t talk about it, but it’s always unspoken between us, hovering in the room like a mood: why didn’t he call me? Why didn’t he try to reach out more? He knew I was young and I was hurting and I was still living with that abusive dickhead, but Ezra didn’t bother. He came to see me once or twice after the accident, and a handful of times before, but it was never for long, never important. I know five years is a long time between siblings, but I’ve always felt abandoned by him. I’ve always wondered why I wasn’t good enough.

  “It was hard,” I say finally, by way of explanation. I mean to say, please don’t judge my brother, he did the best he could, and besides, I didn’t really make much of an effort, either, but I think he understands all that already.

  He nods a little. “I get it. Five years’ difference and all that. Still, he’s been tweaking his fucking brain out these past few days, and probably for longer.” He sighs, running his fingers through his beard and tugging. “I should’ve seen this sooner. I’ve been too consumed with the fucking shop to notice my best friend going down this goddamn rabbit hole, and now…”

  “And now it’s too late?” I finish for him.

  He nods a little. “Probably.”

  “What can we do?” I suddenly feel this rush of optimism. I have no other job, no prospects, no friends, but I do have Ezra and Jonas. Maybe I can help them, make myself useful at least.

  “Nothing,” he says.

  “There has to be something. There’s rehab, and, I don’t know, we could get him to throw the drugs away, and—”

  Jonas interrupts me. “Lizzie, listen. Whatever he’s doing with those guys doesn’t involve chump change. Even sober, he’s not just going to walk away from this now. No, he’s on his own, and it better work out.”

  I feel a little glare of anger. “Why are you abandoning him?”

  “I’m not,” he says firmly. “The best thing we can do for him is to either call the fucking cops and get the whole group arrested, including your fuckwit brother, or we back off and see if he can’t make this happen.”

  “How are those the only options?”

  He drops his hands to the desk. “Only options I can see, at least. Trust me, little rose. Your brother’s in this now and there’s no way in hell he’s going to just walk away, no matter how much you beg him. Plus, those fucking guys won’t let him go that easily. We can’t do shit for him right now.”

  I sit there folding and unfolding my hands in my lap, feeling so angry I could burst, but I don’t know what to do with this anger. I could vent it out on Jonas and have him throw me out of Half Pipe, but then I’ll have nothing at all. Without Jonas, I won’t be able to help Ezra no matter how much I want to. I feel impotent, incompetent, pathetic, weak, and stupid.

  Jonas leans toward me, hands flat on the desk. “Listen, you know I’d help him. You know how much I’ve done for him already, but this is too far. You have to understand that.”

  The memory of that day five years ago comes back, Jonas making me a sandwich, Jonas leaving my house with Ezra. He’s right, Jonas has been taking care of my dumb brother for five years now, and if he thought something could be done, he’d do it.

  I let out a long breath and slowly unknit my fingers. “I just wish there was something I could do,” I say finally.

  “Yeah, I get it.” He leans back in his chair again, relaxing a fraction of an inch. “Believe me, I do. I blame myself, but blame doesn’t matter anymore. This is where we’re at, so we better deal with it.”

  “Really good pep talk.” I give him a little grin and run my fingers through my hair as a smile comes back to his handsome lips. “You should be a coach or something.”

  “I’m a bad influence, remember? Drug dealer and asshole?”

  “Got it, of course.” I hesitate a second before blurting out, “Listen, I need a favor.”

  His eyebrows arch up. “More favors? I thought letting you live in my apartment was favor enough.”

  “My brother’s apartment,” I correct. “And I know I’m asking a lot.”

  “No, it’s fine.” He strokes his beard again, looking at me. “Ask away.”

  “I need a job.”

  The smile on his lips gets bigger. “Do you now?”

  “I’m sorry, I just, I don’t know what I’d do. I don’t have a college degree or anything, so that means shitty retail gigs at best, and I don’t even have any experience with that, and—”

  He interrupts me again. “I’ll hire you.”

  I blink, surprised it was that easy. “Really?”

  “Really,” he confirms. “I do need some talent up front. How do you look in a bikini right now?”

  I narrow my eyes. “Excuse me?”

  “Yeah, a bikini. I’m thinking we get you half-naked, oil you up, and have you greet customers as they come in. Call it the Weed Ambassador Program or some shit.” He cocks his head. “How do you feel about a pushup bra instead of a bikini top? Really make them pop.”

  “You really are an asshole.”

  He laughs and pushes back from his desk, standing up. “Let me show you something.”

  I watch as he walks past me, opening the door to his office and gesturing for me to follow. For a second, I consider going back home and dealing with that dysfunction instead of dealing with this, but I finally get my butt up off the chair. I’d rather whore myself out here than get beaten up by Royal again.

  Jonas leads me down the hallway, past the weed shop, and down a little corner. He stops in front of a heavy-looking metal door with a keypad on the wall to the right. He types in a long string of numbers before hitting a button, and the door audibly unlocks.

  “Right this way.” He pulls it open and we step inside, and I stare at the space.

  Half Pipe doesn’t make a lot of sense. It’s a big building from the outside, but it only uses a small portion for the café and the weed shop. I figured there must be more storage space, but I had no clue exactly how much.

  This room stretches back maybe forty yards. It’s like a small warehouse, but instead of being full of product and shelving units, there are lights dangling from the ceiling and row after row of marijuana plants growing in neatly ordered pots.

  “This is the heart of the operation,” he says, stepping closer to the plants. “We got a license for both selling and growing, so the plan is to become self-sufficient in a few years.

  I look around the space, gaping like a moron. There are so many plants, like an absurd number of plants. Off to the left are some storage shelves, with stuff like coffee beans and plastic forks lining them. To the right, there’s a couch against the one wall with a blanket and a pillow on it, like someone slept here last night. But the plants really dominate the space.

  “This is where you keep all the stuff you guys sell?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “Nah. That’s stuff we’ve bought and are moving along at a little profit, and we keep that in another room closer to the dispensary front end. No, this is just the future, plain and simple.”

  He walks out into the space, moving between the rows. I go with him, marveling at the plants. It’s amazing how simple they are, almost pretty. They’ve caused so many problems and brought so many peo
ple joy and relief over the years, and yet here they are, just regular old plants growing in some dirt.

  “This was Ezra’s idea,” Jonas is saying. “He pictured this place as totally self-sustaining in the future, so we won’t have to buy any product from other farmers at all. I thought he was nuts, but he poured himself into this project, and this… well, you can see for yourself.” He looks over his shoulder, grinning at me. “He did a damn good job.”

  “Wow,” I say. “Ezra did all this himself?”

  “Not totally alone, but yeah, pretty much. He had help setting it up but he’s the real farmer here.”

  “Farmer,” I say with a little laugh. “I guess that’s right.”

  “Just an unusual crop, is all.”

  We come to the end of the row and turn around. It’s plant after plant after plant, but I start to notice little differences. The pots are different colors, with little tags at the end of each. I stop to reach one.

  “California Dream?” I read out loud.

  “That’s a specific strain,” Jonas says. “Your brother has a few different types out here, and each one brings a different kind of high.”

  “I didn’t know there was so much, uh, variation.”

  “Weed people are nuts. They’re the audiophiles of the drug world.”

  I laugh at that and hurry to catch up as he strides back to the front of the room.

  “Why are you showing me all this?” I ask him.

  “You want to work here. This is what we do.” He shrugs a little, finally stopping near the couch and turning to face me. “I’ll give you a job, but you should know what you’re signing up for.”

  “I know you sell weed,” I say. “I mean, it’s a pot dispensary.”

  “It’s one thing knowing, it’s another actually seeing.” He crosses his arms and I glance at the muscles bulging under the tattoos. “Are you sure you can handle it?”

  I meet his eyes and suddenly I’m not sure. I thought I could fit in, but maybe I was wrong. Maybe I’m destined to have no friends.

  He steps closer to me, arms dropping to his sides. “You don’t have to be afraid, little rose. They’re just plants.”