by Dave Eggers
BROTHER
Yeah, we live a few miles north. Close to Albany.
MOTHER
So you live with your folks?
BROTHER
No, just us.
MOTHER But.. .where are your parents?
BROTHER
(thinking, thinking: “They’re not here.” “They couldn’t make it.” “1 have no idea, actually; if only you knew just little idea I have. Oh it’s a doozy, that story. Do you know what it’s like, to have no idea, no idea at all of their exact whereabouts, I mean, the actual place that they are right now, as we speak? That is a weird feeling, oh man. You want to talk about it? You have a few hours?”)
Oh, they died a few years ago.
MOTHER (grabbing BROTHER’i/tfrazw)
Oh, I’m sorry.
BROTHER
No, no, don’t worry.
(wanting to add, as he sometimes does, “It wan’t your fault.” He loves that line, especially when he tacks on: “Or was it?”)
MOTHER
So he lives with you?
BROTHER
Yeah.
MOTHER Oh, gosh. That’s interesting.
BROTHER
(thinking of the state of the house. It is interesting.)
Well, we have fun. What grade is your...
MOTHER Daughter. Fourth. Amanda. If I may, can I ask how they died?
BROTHER
(again scanning possibilities for the entertainment of him and his brother. Plane crash. Train crash. Terrorists. Wolves. He has made up things before, and he was amused, though younger brother’s amusement level was unclear.)
Cancer.
MOTHER
But...at the same time?
BROTHER
About five weeks apart.
MOTHER Oh my god.
BROTHER
(with inexplicable little chuckle) Yeah, it was weird.
MOTHER
How long ago was this?
BROTHER
A few winters ago.
(“brother thinks about how much he likes the uafew winters ago” line. It’s new. It sounds dramatic, vaguely poetic. For a while it was “last year.” Then it was “a year and a half ago.” Now, much to brother’^ relief, it’s (la few years ago.” “A few years ago” has a comfortable distance. The blood is dry, the scabs hardened, peeled. Early on was different. Shortly before leaving Chicago, brothers went to the barber to have tophV hair cut, and brother doesn’t remember how it came up, and brother was really hoping it wouldn’t come up, but when it did come up, BROTHER answered, “A few weeks ago. “At that the hair-cutting woman stopped, went through the antique saloon-style doors to the back room, and stayed there for a while. She came back red-eyed, brother felt terrible. He is always feeling terrible, when the innocent, benign questions of unsuspecting strangers yield the bizarre answer he must provide. Like someone asking about the weather and being told of nuclear winter. But it does have its advantages. In this case, brothers got a free haircut.)
MOTHER
(holding brother’j forearm again)
Well. Good for you! What a good brother you are!
BROTHER
(Smiling. Wonders: What does that mean? He is often told this. At soccer games, at school fund-raisers, at the beach, at the baseball card shows, at the pet store. Sometimes the person telling him this knows their full biography and sometimes she or he does not. brother doesn’t understand the line, both what it means and when it became a standard sort of expression that many different people use. What a good brother you are! brother had never heard the saying before, but now it comes out of all kinds of people’s mouths, always phrased the same way, the same words, the same inflections— a rising sort of cadence:
What a good bro-ther you are!
What does that mean? He smiles, and ifToph is close, he’ll punch him in the arm, or try to trip him — look at us horsing around! Light as air!—then brother will say the same thing he always says after they say their words, the thing that seems to deflate the mounting tension, the uncomfortable drama swelling in the conversation, while also throwing it back at the questioner, because he often wants the questioner to think about what he or she is saying. What he says, with a cute little shrug, or a sigh, is:)
Well, what are you gonna do?
(mother smiles and squeezes brother^ forearm one more time, then pats it. brothers look to audience, wink, and then break into a fabulous Fossean dance number, lots of kicks and high-stepping, a few throws and catches, a big sliding-across-the-stage-on-their-knees thing, then some more jumping, some strutting, and finally, a crossing-in-midair front flip via hidden trampoline, with both of them landing perfectly, just before the orchestra, on one knee, hands extended toward audience, grinning while breathing heavily. The crowd stands and thunders. The curtain falls. They thunder still.) FIN
As the crowd stomps the floor for a curtain call, we sneak through the back door and make off like superheroes.
Oh I could be going out, sure. It’s Friday night and I should be out, across the Bay, I should be out every night, with the rest of the young people, fixing my hair, spilling beer, trying to get someone to touch my penis, laughing with and at people. Kirsten and I are taking a break, which we have done twice already and will do ten or twelve times in the future, meaning that we (ostensibly) date other people. So yes, I could be out, enjoying this freedom specifically and that of youth generally, exulting in the richness of my time and place.
But no.
I will be here, at home. Toph and I will cook, as usual—
“Can you get the milk?”
“It’s right there.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
and then we will play Ping-Pong, and then we’ll probably drive to that place on Solano and rent a movie, and, on the way back, buy a few push-ups at 7-Eleven. Oh I could be out, rollicking in the ripeness of my flesh and others’, could be drinking things and eating things and rubbing mine against theirs, speculating about this person or that, waving, indicating hello with a sudden upward jutting of my chin, sitting in the backseat of someone else’s car, bumping up and down the San Francisco hills, south of Market, seeing people attack their instruments, afterward stopping at a bodega, parking, carrying the bottles in a paper bag, the glass clinking, all our faces bright, glowing under streetlamps, down the sidewalk to this or that apartment party, hi, hi, putting the bottles in the fridge, removing one for now, hating the apartment, checking the view, sitting on the arm of a couch and being told not to, and then waiting for the bathroom, staring idly at that ubiquitous Ansel Adams print, Yosemite, talking to a short-haired girl while waiting in the hallway, talking about teeth, no reason really, the train of thought unclear, asking to see her fillings, no, really, I’ll show you mine first, ha ha, then no, you go ahead, I’ll go after you, then, after using the bathroom she is still there, still in the hallway, she was waiting not just for the bathroom but for me, and so eventually we’ll go home together, her apartment, where she lives alone, in a wide, immaculate railroad type place, newly painted, decorated with her mother, then sleeping in her oversized, oversoft white bed, eating breakfast in her light-filled nook, then maybe to the beach for a few hours with the Sunday paper, then wandering home whenever, never—
Fuck. We don’t even have a baby-sitter.
Beth and I are still thinking it’s too early to leave Toph with anyone but family, that to do otherwise would cause him to feel unwanted and alone, leading to the warping of his fragile psyche, then to experimentation with inhalants, to the joining of some River’s Edge kind of gang, too much flannel and too little remorse, the cutting of his own tats, the drinking of lamb’s blood, the inevitable initiation-fulfilling murder of me and Beth in our sleep. So when I go out, once a week, on a day Beth and I have chosen together, Toph gets his things together, stuffs them into his backpack, uses both straps, and walks over to her house and spends the night on half of her futon.
The no-baby-sitter rule is only one of many, so so many, all
necessary to keep this thing together, keep it from spinning out of control. For instance, Beth is no longer allowed to have Toph around if any of those feeble and obnoxious friends of hers will be there—Katie, as an orphan herself, knows what is what, but the others do not, at all—drinking or even not drinking, because they insist on talking about inappropriate things, the proclivities of boyfriends, the degree of their last drunkenness, and do so in a stunted, Valley sort of way that spreads stupidity by osmosis. Further, if either Beth or I am dating someone, that someone will not be introduced to Toph immediately, and Toph will not be required to go on junkets—football games, zoos, rodeos—so we can show him off to these new boyfriends. No, there will be a waiting period, so that by the time Toph meets this someone, this someone will actually be a someone that Toph may see again, so that he will not be required to meet dozens, fifty, hundreds of people over the years, all introduced as some sort of special person, eventually souping them together, getting himself confused, growing up with no sense of propriety, identity, no discernible and changeless family core, thus weak and flighty, thus susceptible to the dubious allure of ashrams, kibbutzes and Jesus. As for my own dating, if I am going out on something like a date, and we go out early, and the date involves an activity that Toph might enjoy, then of course Toph comes along. If the star of the something-like-a-date expresses any reservations about having Toph along, she is clearly a very bad person. If she thinks that because Toph is brought along to dinner, that it means that I like her less, that he is serving as some kind of buffer, then she is misguided and self-centered and also a bad person. If when she comes over she questions anything about the state of the house—“Oh God, there’s food under the couch!” or even “Holy bachelor pad!”—or worse, any parental decisions made in her company or otherwise, she is first glared at in Toph’s presence, later lectured out of his earshot, and then becomes fodder for month-long trashings in conversations with Beth about people who know nothing about anything and how dare they say anything, these people, these lotus-eating simpletons who have never known struggle, who would never question other parents, but feel the right to question me, us, simply because we are new at it, are young, are siblings. Then again, of course, if she, the date-person, does not ask about the passed-on parents, she is unthoughtful, rude, weightless, too young, selfish. If she does, but assumes that it was a car crash—
“Who said it was a car crash?”
“I just assumed.”
“You just... What?”
then she is a very bad person. However, asking too many questions is not at all allowed, either, because—
“Don’t you want to talk about it?”
“What, now? With you?”
“Yes. Please.”
“At a bar?”
“You don’t have to carry this around alone.”
Oh Jesus.
“Oh Jesus.”
that’s not her place, and there’s no coming out of that alive. If she wants me to make more of an effort, to come up to Stanford to see her as opposed to her always having to come down, she is reminded, politely, with all due restraint, of the vast, vast, immeasurable chasm between our respective situations, hers being one of breezy frivolity, of limitless cable TV and “Let’s watch a movie,” and “Let’s go out to dinner,” and “Let’s go here,” and “Let’s go there,” and cafes and drinking whatever whenever, and Tahoe, and camping, and shopping, and skydiving, and doing anything at any time, while mine, in sharp, razor-sharp contrast—let’s not be unclear about this (Terrie, this should be so imminently clear)— being put-upon, purposeful, stressful, spartan, down-time-less, limiting, exhausting, a world of young knees needing stitching and young lunches needing packing and young minds needing help with elaborate projects about east Africa, not to mention grueling parent-teacher conferences and bizarre and threatening notices from Social Security—HAS CHRISTOPHER EGGERS BEEN RECENTLY MARRIED? CHECK YES OR NO AND RETURN THIS FORM IMMEDIATELY FAILURE TO DO SO WILL RESULT IN CESSATION OF BENEFITS—my existence almost wholly dedicated to being the only thing standing in the way of for-him-otherwise-certain oblivion, given to trying to pull off what might very well be one of the great achievements of recorded history. If she does not understand this she is a bad person. If she says she understands, but wonders why maybe I couldn’t still try to make an effort, some sort of better effort, it only proves how much she does not understand, will never understand, will not understand until one day, when something unspeakable happens, she should pray something bad does not happen but it probably will, when her own life-fabric is pulled taut, when there is suddenly no margin for error, no room for the loosey-goosey, the lolling and dilly-dallying and time-management decadence—and just how difficult it is to maintain this kind of self-righteous front while knowing full well that such an effort to meet her at Stanford, or even halfway, would of course be made if the relationship seemed worth it and if she hadn’t, on the second time out, asked to be spanked. Seeking some kind of understanding, though, I find myself seeking out others mangled by bizarre familial machinery, those whose parents are dead, or dying, at least divorced—hoping that these people will know what I know, and thus will not hassle me about the details, about give and take, about my contributions. Toph-wise, if, as we paw each other on the couch in the burgundy living room after Toph has gone to asleep, she wants to stay the night, nnd does not understand why she cannot, does not understand ,hy Toph must not wake up to see random people sleeping in his brother’s bed, she is too young and unthoughtful and does not appreciate the importance of creating for Toph as simple a childhood as possible, and so she is not seen again. If she does not know how to talk to Toph, if she treats him like a hearing-impaired dog or worse, like a child, she is not seen again and is made fun of with Beth. If, on the other hand, she treats Toph like an adult, fine, but in such a way that inappropriate things are said, things unfit for his young ears, such as “Can you believe what they were charging for condoms at Walgreen s?” then she is unpreferred. In general, if, even with the observance of said rules, Toph does not like her, for whatever reason—he never says so but it becomes clear (he retreats to his room when she arrives or he does not show her his lizards or does not want to go for candy after the movie)—then she is slowly faded away, unless of course she is extraordinarily good-looking, in which case it doesn’t matter what the little dickhead says. If she brings Toph something, for instance a pack of new Ping-Pong balls, the need for which she somehow gleaned, then she is a good person, not a bad one, and she is loved unconditionally. If she comes over for dinner and actually eats our version of tacos, without all that ludicrous shit people usually put in them, she is a saint and is welcome anytime. If she recognizes that the way we cut oranges—width-wise, not length-wise—is the only logical way, the only aesthetically pleasing way, and eats the whole slice as opposed to just sucking the juice and leaving that anemone mess, then she is perfect and will be talked about glowingly—remember Susan? We liked Susan—for months to come, even if she is not seen again, because she is otherwise too skinny and nervous-seeming.
Not that we’re demanding. No—we’re fun! Easy, laid-back. Ha ha. Yes. Fun. There is no reason for anyone to be nervous; the rules are for us only, are never stated, never discussed. We are, truth be told, exceptionally effort-making, jovial, comfort-giving, even if we spend most of our time, in her presence, trying not so much to entertain her, but to entertain each other, often at her expense. But in a fun way! Everything is low-key with us, it should be noted that it’s demonstrably low-key, that we’re accepting of everyone, and, best of all, Toph takes to just about everyone immediately. Sure, it helps if you’re interested in iguanas and can make words while belching, but even without such features, he actually recognizes the difficult spot a given date-person is in, and makes things easy, showing them his Magic cards when they say they’d like to see them, getting them beverages, with ice, sitting next to them, almost on top of them, so happy he is for the new company, someone who might, if
he goes and gets it before his bedtime and maybe while his brother is in the bathroom and so can’t protest, play Trivial Pursuit, as long as it’s the fast way—one pie piece per answer correctly provided.
At the moment I’m seeing a woman who is twenty-nine. The twenty-nine-year-old, an actual woman-woman, is the managing editor at the weekly where I do some design and freelance illustrating. Though it becomes clear early on, after she wears a beret one day, of purple velour, that we’re not meant to be, I continue the relationship, gloating about my ability to procure and relate to this woman-woman, seven years older. She is smart, with long blond hair and laugh lines, and is also midwestern, from Minnesota I think, and knows how to order and drink actual drinks. And she’s twenty-nine. Was that mentioned, that she’s twenty-nine? This I consider fitting, fitting that I, who am bearing the weight of both Toph and the world, I who have been through so much and already feel so old, should be dating a woman seven years my senior. But of course!
Her motivations are unclear, but I have a theory: at twenty-nine, she, like most people at or near thirty, is feeling wretched, old, as if their chance has passed—and the only way to regain even a smidgen of their squandered youth would be to drink in someone like me, bursting with virility—
But whoa I feared seeing her naked body. Before we got to that stage, I wondered, often, if she would be wrinkled, prunelike, sagging. I had never seen the naked flesh of anyone over twenty-three, and, when we went out one night, without Toph, drank some specific vodka drink that I had never heard of, until we held hands at that table in the back while pretending to listen to the ex—lead singer of that certain seminal Los Angeles punk band, this man blurrily singing blah blah far below us, $14 background music, and then went to her apartment, I was ready to be horrified, was debating what I would do if I had to touch her pimpled or varicose flesh, and when we stumbled up and into her place I was happy that it was so dark, even darker in her bedroom— But then she was not grizzled and drooped, her flesh was still firm and full and I was thrilled and relieved, and in the morning, in the white light, she was pale and smooth, her hair blonder and longer than I remembered, streaming all over her white sheets, and for a few minutes it was really nice— But I had to leave. It was the first time I had spent the night elsewhere since we had moved to California, and though Toph was sleeping at Beth’s, I wanted to be home in case he came back early—if I was not, he would know I had stayed elsewhere, and would not understand this, and would grow up to sell crack or sing in a harmonizing pop group from Florida. I dressed and left, passed her roommate on the way out and drove back, over the bridge, glorious, the ships plowing to and fro, and made it in time. The house was empty, and I dove into bed, fell back asleep, and when he came home his brother was there, of course had been there the whole time, of course had never left.