The Fifteenth of June

by Brent Jones

  “Neither. What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “Your loss.” Neil shrugged. “I mean, you could have them both if you want. Personally I don’t fuck anything less than a nine—”

  “Are we talking looks or age?”

  “Very funny. Look, relax bro. I’m not gonna touch ‘em. But if word gets out that there’s no junk at my parties, I’ll never get another busload of pussy here again. Got to give the ladies what they came for.”

  *

  “Here you are! I’ve been looking all over for you.” Kara said.

  Drew was alone in the study leaned against a bookshelf, ostensibly perusing its titles, most of them in an alien language. He’s never read all these books.

  “Are you all right, Drew Thomson?” Kara approached Drew and put a hand on his shoulder. “Drew, it’s me—are you feeling okay?”

  Drew finally noticed her. “Oh, yeah, I’m doing good. How about you?” His speech was hallow and labored, slurred nearly beyond recognition.

  “Something I ate at dinner didn’t agree with me.”

  “What’d it say?”

  “Huh? No, I mean—”

  “Did you win?”

  “Win what?”

  “The disagreement.”

  Kara tittered. “Drew—”

  “You said you and your dinner had a disagreement.”

  “Yeah, and I think the dinner won.”

  Drew bobbed his head. He felt the air whoosh past his ears. “Better luck next time.”

  “Anyway, I’m not feeling so hot. I’ve got a friend coming to pick me up. I’ll text you tomorrow, okay?”

  Drew didn’t respond. He swayed in one spot, his vapid gaze burning a hole through the collection of books. Where did all these books come from anyway?

  *

  It was only midnight but Drew knew it was time to go.

  The journey back to his car proved to be a grueling affair. His feet wouldn’t move in sync at first. Then his keys went missing for a while. Once found, they wouldn’t go in the ignition. The stick shift was heavier than he remembered, disinclined to budge at first. But after a few attempts and with a lot of persistence, he managed to escape from the underground parking. He began moving in the right direction, streetlights streaking his peripheral vision.

  He turned on the radio to discover more magic music—just like the DJ had been playing. His car responded to the epic melodies, flying toward its destination in double time, passing other vehicles along the racetrack. He had no idea his hatchback liked to party.

  Drew’s phone vibrated in his pocket, electrifying his leg, as though he were having an out-of-body experience. Something was touching him . . . but by the time he realized what, it was too late to answer. “Forgot to turn off my electronics before takeoff,” he said to himself with a chuckle.

  He tore through the next intersection, its burning red stoplight urging him to proceed. His bald tires screeched with excitement.

  * * *

  Chapter 24

  Lights filled his rearview mirror all at once, bouncing glowing embers off his eyes. A whole host of flashes were in pursuit, hollering, their voices like a thousand blaring sirens. He could taste his heartbeat in his throat, feel his pulse pounding.

  He brought his car to a rapid halt in the middle of the lane. A powerful floodlight poured through his rear windshield from a vehicle behind him.

  Drew looked up as a man his forties approached, grim, his face worn with stress lines resembling canyons, his peppered white hair dancing in the evening breeze. “License and registration.”

  Drew remained motionless, racking his brain to recall what that meant. “I, uh, don’t—I don’t know if I have those things,” he said. His hands trembled, his face was white with terror.

  “You don’t have a license?”

  “I, uh—I probably do. But I’ll be damned if I can remember where I put it.”

  The man twitched his nose. “Sir, have you been drinking tonight? I followed you for a while. You were all over the road.”

  “I might have ran a red light, too.”

  “Sir, I’m going to need you to step out of the car.”

  “Standing is hard right now,” Drew whined. “I’m a bit drunk, kinda high on coke, and I just tried ecstasy for the first time—”

  “Sir, step out of—”

  “I should probably just take one next time.” His car door flew open, as though his hatchback had decided to eject him. He set one foot on the road with pronounced difficulty, his head swimming, and struggled to pull out the other before falling out of the car.

  “Can you walk, sir?”

  Drew laid still, trying to remember how balance worked. “I hope so . . . let me try.”

  * * *

  Chapter 25

  Getting arrested turned out to be even less glamorous than it looked on television. Drew passed the long and restless hours in his holding cell babbling to himself, unable to sleep, incoherent and frustrated. He had mostly sobered up by sunrise, at which point he was faced with a dilemma. It was Sunday, the Fourth of July at that. The courts would be closed until Tuesday. He could sit in a cell until then, or make bail. His car had been impounded and his license suspended—a suspension he had the right to contest, but not the desire. He felt defeated.

  The good news was that, unlike what he had seen on popular crime dramas, he was permitted more than one phone call. He first considered calling Logan. His legal background could prove useful. But hoping to spare himself a lecture, Drew decided against it. After getting no answer three or four times in a row, Neil finally picked up.

  An hour later, Drew was escorted from his cell to collect his personal belongings—his phone, keys, and wallet—and instructed to appear at his arraignment on Tuesday. He walked outside and found Neil leaning against the building, tapping his foot, undoubtedly irritated. They walked through the parking lot to Neil’s Mercedes.

  “You fucking idiot,” Neil said, once they were inside with the doors closed. “You got yourself arrested.”

  “Give it a rest, Neil. You’re not the victim here. You let me wander off in the middle of the night and drive—”

  “I told you not to take those pills, bro.” Neil glared at him, eyes beady and bloodshot, his usual morning grooming glossed over in favor of sweat pants and a tee shirt. “That was your own stupid fucking decision.” He took a moment to compose himself. “You didn’t tell them where you were coming from, did you?”

  “I kept you out of it.”

  “Thank God for small miracles . . .” He rocked his head in his hand, his arm resting against the car door. “I had to leave three fine ladies in bed this morning to come get you, you know.”

  If I’d have gone to prison last night, I might have ended up in bed with three fine gentlemen. “Three at once, huh? How many dicks do you have?”

  “They mostly took care of each other.”

  Drew glanced at the dashboard. It was eight o’clock. “Look, I’m sorry, Neil. I really am. Thanks for coming to get me and thanks for bailing me out. I’ll pay you back.”

  “Get real. You work at a fucking call center. I’ll won’t see that money again until your court date. And if you jump bail, I’ll find you and fucking murder you.”

  “Fine. Just take me home then.”

  “Sure thing, bro. Some gratitude,” Neil grumbled. “Where to?”

  “Palmer Heights.”

  He laughed under his breath, his best passive aggressive attempt at condescension.

  Drew scanned his phone for text messages from the night before. Its charge was nearly depleted, but it had a sliver of juice left.

  Kara: Just got home :) hope you had a fun night xoxo

  He swiped to the next conversation.

  Logan: On my way

  Logan: Drew where are you?

  Logan: Check your messages Drew. Call back ASAP please

  Exerting a herculean effort—his head pounding, his senses on fire—Drew raised the phone to his ear, fol
lowing robotic prompts to his voicemail inbox. Four unheard messages.

  “Hi Drew, it’s Holly Kenney calling from Mercy Vale—it’s just after midnight. I’m sorry for calling so late, but your father is having difficulty breathing. I don’t want to alarm you, but if you get this message tonight, I’d recommend paying him a visit right away.”

  “Drew, it’s Holly again. Thought I’d give you another try. I was able to get ahold of Logan—he’s on his way. If you get this message, please call one of us back or get to the hospital as fast as you can. Your dad’s holding on for the time being, but he might not make it through the night.”

  “Andrew, it’s Logan. I’m at the hospital with Russell. He’s choking on his own blood. They’re trying to suction it, but it’s not helping. You need to get down here, Andrew. Hurry.”

  Logan had been frantic in his first message, but in the second his sorrow was unmistakable, his voice shaky and subdued. “Where are you?” Indistinct sobs and sniffles. “He’s gone, Andrew. Russell’s gone.”

  *

  Drew stormed into his father’s room. “Dad!”

  Russell’s bed was empty, stripped of its sheets, the contraptions that had monitored his vitals absent. Drew stared, entombed, the morning sunlight peeking through the far window and barreling into his pupils like a freight train, his head not just throbbing, but reeling out of control. The room was noiseless, sterile, barren. It was as if his father had never been there.

  “Is that you, Drew?”

  But Drew heard nothing at first, deaf to the sounds of Patrick in the next bed. His ears were filled with a distant ringing noise—a high-pitched whine, as though he were suffering from shell shock. His senses were fragile, his mind unhinged.

  “Drew?”

  No response.

  “Drew, it’s Patrick—come pull back my screen.”

  After a moment of indecision, Drew approached the far end of the room, his feet dragging like cinderblocks and his stomach full of concrete. He retracted the privacy curtain in slow motion. There was Patrick, withered and decaying, what remained of him sitting upright in bed. “I’m sorry,” Patrick said. “They wheeled your dad out in the night, and . . .” He gestured to empty side of the room, “. . . I don’t think he made it.”

  “I wasn’t here.”

  “What?”

  “I missed the call and he died without me here.”

  Patrick listened, calm, allowing Drew to express his thoughts uninhibited, and then offered, “It’s not your fault—you had a good reason, I’m sure. Plus your brother was here.”

  Drew shook his aching head. “Jail.”

  “Huh?”

  “I spent the night in jail.”

  “I’m sorry it happened that way, son—”

  I’m not your son.

  “My wife used to have a saying.” Patrick removed a photograph he had safeguarded between two pages of a Bible on his bedside table. It was a portrait of a younger version of himself alongside a heavyset woman with curly hair . . .

  Coffee Breath. “I know her,” Drew blurted. “This woman.” He snatched the photo Patrick held out to him, tapping his finger on her face. “She was a—”

  “She was a grief counselor.”

  “Yes, a, uh—” He was going to say Sadness Doctor. “I saw her when I was a child. I was about ten or so when Dad took me to see her.”

  “She worked with kids a lot of the time.”

  “I only met her once . . . where is she now?”

  “Passed away a few years ago, my Victoria did. God rest her soul.”

  Drew shook, overflowing with agony and regret but astounded nonetheless, wishing he were better equipped to appreciate this discovery. “This woman changed my life.”

  “She’d be happy to hear that, I think. If I may ask, what did she change?”

  “She changed . . .” But nothing came. “She encouraged me to keep a diary.”

  “Well, Vickie always had a saying. ‘Live your life with purpose,’ she would say, ‘or life will be nothing more than passing seconds and minutes.’ ”

  “I got arrested for drunk driving last night. I don’t know that I’m living with much purpose these days.”

  “But you’re young, Drew. Fairly young, at least. You’ve still got time. You can still honor your dad’s memory. That’s what he would have wanted.”

  Drew peered back at the empty bed, as if he expected to see his father there, complete with angel wings and a halo, glowing, healthy and perfect. Instead he saw nothingness—just an empty hole where Russell had endured his final days. He glanced at the photo again, and then returned it to Patrick. “Do you still miss her?”

  “It gets easier, son. Just try and focus on the special moments.”

  * * *

  Chapter 26

  It was a long cab ride back to Palmer Heights. The driver seemed bent on engaging in idle chitchat, but Drew wasn’t in the mood. “I tell you, this city is going to hell fast.”

  “It is?”

  “Yeah, we’ve got corrupt politicians lying through their teeth. Goddamn immigrants taking all the good jobs—”

  “You seem to be doing all right.”

  “Yeah, buddy, I’m living the dream.” He looked to be middle age, overweight, and a hint scruffier than Drew. His teeth were sparse and his words tumbled out inarticulate and muddled.

  “This is my building,” Drew announced. “Right up here on the left.”

  “Nice place,” the driver commented, not a hint of mockery in his voice.

  As Drew approached his apartment door, he found a document taped to it: Eviction Notice. In other circumstances, Drew might have reacted differently—tearing it down in a fit of panic or crumpling it up and tossing it away. But weary and shattered as he was, he removed it with care, unlocked his door, and went inside.

  After shuffling about and trying to eat breakfast—he couldn’t manage more than two bites—he dropped himself in his rocking chair, powered on his laptop, and started recording.

  “I—I don’t even know where to start.” He kept his eyes lowered, avoiding his own reflection on the screen. “Dad’s gone. Died last night, while I was at Neil’s—no, while I was in jail to be more accurate. My car got impounded, I lost my license—” He glanced over at his mountain bike on the balcony. “Guess I’ll be pedaling to work from now on.”

  Drew deliberated for a moment before getting to his feet and retrieving a sealed bottle of vodka from the kitchen. He placed it on his desk and sat down.

  “I can’t believe I wasn’t with—” Tears fell from his face, a few at first, then a raging stream, the pent up grief of that morning spilling down his cheeks. “I just can’t believe it.” Regret and rage balled together in his stomach. “I never got to say goodbye. . .” Pain was unfamiliar to Drew, having spent so many years numb.

  His face wet and his hands unsteady, he raised the eviction notice in full view of the camera. It looked a bit plain, like something printed on standard computer paper. “And then there’s this. Rent was due on Thursday and there was nothing in my account.”

  One minute and eleven seconds.

  His phone rang, Sierra.

  Drew thought for a moment about allowing it to go to voicemail, but he recalled how that worked out the night before. He answered on the third ring. “Hello?”

  “Hey Drew, it’s Sierra.”

  “Hi.”

  “Is everything okay, dude?”

  He contemplated for a moment. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “You texted me a photo of some books last night asking me where they came from.”

  “It was a long night.” He sunk down further in his chair. “Dad died just after midnight.”

  “Oh, wow, I’m so sorry.”

  The video was still recording. It seemed ironic that his webcam, attributed with chronicling special moments, was for the first time capturing life as it happened.

  “Can I come see you?” she asked. “Or would you rather be left alone?”

>   Drew eyed the vodka in front of him. “I, uh—maybe we could get together later. I’m right in the middle of something at the moment.”

  “You’re not drinking, are you?”

  “No, I’m—I’m recording a video actually.”

  “Like a YouTube video?”

  “More like a personal diary entry.”

  “You still keep a diary? I thought you said it never helped much.”

  Drew thought back to his conversation with Patrick that morning, the startling realization that he had been married to Coffee Breath. “I don’t know. It doesn’t hurt, I suppose.” Suppose, s’pose . . .

  “If it helps you move forward, that’s great. But if it keeps you fixated on the past, maybe it’s not such a good idea.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve just always preferred the idea of creating a dream board rather than writing in a diary. Keeps me looking forward. But you must be going through hell right now. If talking it out helps, go for it. Um, Drew, can I ask you something else?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can you promise me you won’t drink today?”

  “I can’t promise you that, no.”

  “Then can you at least wait until after I come see you?”

  Drew peeked at his phone. Its battery was about to die. “I’ve got to go, Sierra. I’ll think about it.” A knock came at the door. “I’ll text you later.”

  “Okay. I’ll be thinking about you.”

  “Likewise.” Drew tossed his phone on the desk, curious to see what new disturbance awaited him. He opened the door.

  There stood Logan, his face blotchy and somber. “Where were you?”

  “I—”

  “Russell died last night and you weren’t there, Andrew.”

  “I know.” Drew invited Logan inside. “I showed up this morning and it was too late.”