A Catch in the Current

Every so often, a little speck of grey mold comes out of the water cooler in the shop and enters my bottle as I fill it. It looks like dust, but dust when wet doesn’t stay all one whole fleck, so I think it’s mold. Usually when this happens, my water bottle is too full to empty it down the drain, because, well, the world is running out of water, so why should I waste it? At least that’s how I see it from taking Kay Williams Conservation of Natural Resources 108 in Rolland 200 a few years back. No one liked that class—prof. was pretty old-fashioned—but I got something out of it, like to flush the toilet less and shower quicker.

Sometimes I try to drink the water all the way down to the last sip without ingesting the mold. Sometimes I don’t care and slurp it down as soon as possible to decimate the agonizing worry that I might drink down the mold. I guess it depends on my mood, or rather my degree of apathy. Apathy is a funny word for me; it signifies relaxation and a sense of calm, yet also represents a piece of me that didn’t really appear until my college years.

I mellowed out a lot when I settled for my second college choice, a Pa. state school that was cheaper than the privet St. Joe’s U. in Philadelphia, where my heart and mind truly fancied. Everyone knows this story, and it's not that I'm complaining or I regret the decision, it's just 100 percent a part of who I am now, kinda like the crown on my front chipped tooth or my squinty left eye. 

I fell in with some West Philly hood rats my first year away, (they were familiar and they talked like me,) and learned how to roll my first blunt, but still maintained Dean’s list… for the first 3 semesters.

Then came the apathy, for reasons none of your business, but it was every sign of depression shy of extreme disparity, and I left that spring for home, my car crammed with lamps and trashcans and comforters and the like. I left behind my apathy though, and brought home a new major, a new outlook, a new start.

From then on I was back—I was motivated to get involved, I kicked aside the regret of that dropped class sophomore year; I took it as a learning experience. 

I rode the high though this past summer, the summer after graduation, applying for what few jobs were available in my career path, while working part-time with my uncle at as a secretary at an auto body shop.

Now I’m panicking as tens of thousands of dollars loom over me darker than any cloud I’ve ever seen, even darker than that blockbuster Twister picture, with Helen Hunt? Or was that Jodie Foster…

Who cares? The summer's over, and I took back my old job at the mall to help with bills. I drink spirits just about every single night, and I drank the mold the other day without a second thought.

After Sundown and Before Sunrise

Her bathrobe always hung on the back of her door, the lighter, longer, pink one that was probably cheaper than her green puffy one, but she got hot easy and besides, summer had just ended. After falling asleep prematurely that evening, she awoke in a flit to see what she missed out on during the prime Thursday night hours, courtesy of the nearly 20 text messages she'd snoozed through. She was starving, but no one in their right mind eats in the middle of the night, so after a long debate she settled for putting on the bathrobe and heading out for a smoke, instead of risking an argument with her father and leaning out the window.

A little blaze would do her good right now, but she left it at her friend's apartment, and there was no use thinking about what could be under the bright, almost-full but receding moon. She smelled a nearby skunk and thought how her friend could tell her what phase of moon it was, its proper name and all, and she'd never remember it, but she'd adore it. Her friend could tell her almost anything, and if she believed it, she'd absolutely adore it. 

Fingering the old burn hole near her pocket, from ancient times she thought were through, she finished up her cigarette pondering the kindness of men she never wanted, or never thought she wanted anyhow, and words she could never say, and went in for a glass of water, debating spilling it all and crying. She couldn't see the moon's glow anymore from inside the house, and she couldn't smell the skunk anymore but those things were still there. 

If no one in their right mind eats at this hour, she thought she probably should, because it would only prove what she already knew and at least she could finally be honest with herself. It seemed too harsh to think it, but that's as far as she ever got to this point, and if she never went through with the spilling and crying, then that's as far as she'd ever get, though she thought maybe thinking, under the moon she couldn't identify, that was honest enough. But thinking about it under the bright almost-full moon, it was no use. It would go on shining, and the skunk, on spraying, and the water would get cleaned up and be forgotten forever, so she hung up her bathrobe and went back to bed with her cup like a child and prayed to know what the moon was called without having to ask.

How to Avoid Getting Pulled Over: Part 1

No one wants to get pulled over, whether you’re blatantly breaking the law or unaware of your trespasses. In either regard, there are surefire ways to avoid the stress of those red and blue flashing lights in your rearview mirror. Fortunately for you, reader, I’m the queen of getting pulled over, and I’m here to share my advice. Before you face ticket fines and court appearances, take the time to review how not to get pulled over, part one in a two part series.

What kind of car are you driving?: According to Forbes.com, a common misconception is that a bold car color is more likely to get pulled over than a less dramatic hue. They’ve determined that the type of car you drive has more of an impact on your chances of facing the law. Sportier, “younger” looking cars are pulled over at a 4x higher rate than SUVs and minivans. Male drivers (sorry,) have worse luck, too. So be a girl and take out mom’s soccer mobile and you can avoid the headaches of dealing with the po-po. Or be me and drive an old gold grandma Chevy Malibu, your choice.

Know the hot-(fuzz)spots: Traveling the same way to work/school/errands every day, you should know where the cops hang out and wait for you to be caught speeding. Don’t speed around bends and hills on the highway or anywhere that you can’t see far ahead of you, like past bridges or tunnels; I’ve known a lot of state troopers to post-up in these spots. Keep your speed low enough over the limit not to be a nuisance; I’ve been told officers tend to leave you alone if you’re going only 15 m.p.h. over the posted limit. If you’re really running late, keep your eyes open for the good-samaritan opposing-traffic drivers flashing their lights. But if you’re pulled over speeding, be prepared to pay the price (a.k.a. hundreds of dollars and can't nobody afford that, no, not now.)

There’s an app for that: While some radar systems can stand alone, there are kinds you can link with your iPhone, (the equipment syncs with your cellular device and alerts you to cameras at stoplights, speed detecting radar, cop cars, etc.). There are also shady business kind of apps that are strictly on your iPhone and rely on other driver/passenger testimonial-- I can’t find much info on these because the internet is a shaaaaayyydayyyy place these days, but I’ve know people who’ve used these and ratings are varied. Can’t hurt to try though.

Keep your car in-check: You’re driving it--for your safety and that of other drivers, make sure brake lights (actually tail lights as a whole,) are fully-functioning, mirrors are intact and in position, tires are full of air, and nothing is dragging, like, say, your muffler. For one, broken car parts just scream suspect, and also, you need to keep a good visual of your environment. If your windows are tinted darker than the atlantic (well, the Jersey shore portion,) you’re not going know what’s going on. Same goes for the other senses; if you can’t hear the cop pulling you over because the volume your subs beating out of the trunk exceeds normal human capability, you probably could lower the volume. Think about what you look like from the outside looking in after you hit that McDonald’s drive-thru.

Don’t drive by the same cop twice: Unless you need their help, there’s no reason to pass a cop more than once. It’s suspect if you drive back and forth, just go where you gotta go and take a different way home.

This is pretty common sense stuff, but you’d be surprised how many people I know that could have avoided the annoyance of talking to police just by taking basic precautions and driving smart (including myself.) Join me next time for part two in the two part series: What to do Once You’ve Been Pulled Over.

The Old Ones, by Night

I remember when we used ride around and get so stoned and nothing else mattered. I'd press my forehead to the damp and crisply chilly window and look at the lights ripping by as if they'd be the death of us, some illuminated tons of steal pummeling our car. And we'd be hurt or worse but it wouldn't matter because the real tragedy would be that a bunch of honor roll kids were smoking pot when it happened. 

~

I remember exactly where I was when I heard about the suicides of two different friends--the first, in my bedroom, and the second, driving to my new job. I quit later that week. The first time, I held back tears. The second, I tried not to die with him.

~

Every night I spent in the car with my friends getting baked and wasting money and time, (such precious time,) was worth it, because I wasn't alone. If those lights lit up our car for a second longer than they did just then, we'd have burned out bright. For once, in each other's company we'd all really finally lose it, as opposed to the defense with which we covered ourselves like the blanket of night in which we used to drive around and get so stoned and nothing else mattered. 

Down, Out

The girl lay in her bed with the television volume low, her eyes closed, facing the wall. The box flickered an old black and white film, in which a mentally handicapped golf caddy follows his cup-winning "partner" to the stunning Cathrine Taylor's vacation home- but that's not focus, just the vessel.

"What does it mean to think, just think and be left with my own thoughts?" She's then reminded of a study once discussed with a friend, in which people preferred to electrocute themselves rather than "be left alone with their own thoughts."

"Left alone with my own thoughts," she thought. Just as you read it, heard it in your head, so did she. Plain as day, as they say, the words plunked silently in her mind, and sunk to the bottom of her empty well, ever-falling because there was no bottom. Erased from the chalkboard, gone as quick as it materialized.

She thought of the study, the people now with their cell phones, at the time removed from their cars and t.v.s and twitter.

On-screen flickered: a different time, a generation of their own thoughts... Not completely (of course, they filmed it, there's that,) but more so than today's world of blinking billboards and Pandora radio. But back then, at night, when her father's mother lay facing the wall, what stones plunked in her mind? And did she hear their silence the same? The girl thought thoughts would seem louder then; the world was a quieter place. She wondered if that was what they meant by "quiet your thoughts," because to her, the saying never made much sense. How could anyone hear what they were thinking if they thought quieter? 

The girl didn't like thinking about thinking, but she had to think to try to quiet her thoughts. She stared into the back of her eyelids at the almost shapes of dim colored light that faded in and out. She pictured a beach she had never been to, one that might and probably does not exist. But was imagining part of the thought-process, too?

She thought of meditation, but that only conjured up some Jesus prayer she read about in a secular book. But surely, prayer was thought, too.

She wasn't sure how to stave off thinking, however sleep seemed like the only viable option. At least in her dreams, if they were "thought," she wouldn't have to think about thinking.

But to in order to sleep, the girl would have to put her phone down and stop writing down her every thought, before they plunked down through her endless empty well, and silent as they were to begin with, were never heard from again.

The routine of my uncertainty

Every night I intend to go home, if only for appearances. I don't like when my dad wakes up and no one is home, even if the sun shines and birds chirp and he packed his lunch the night before. He's alone enough. En route behind the wheel of my old-man Malibu, I feel more alive than ever-- it's the ultimatum of my final destination and the confidence that I control the time and path I take there. The world's weight lifts a little as the pedal at my foot shakes. Gas seemingly flows through my toes, and I buzz, and I sing, and my vocal chords shudder with every chorus of "If I Ever Feel Better." I think of the movie I just watched, it usually ends ambiguously, which I crave much more than a happy ending. I'd rather live not knowing than settle for something too good to be true, or have to digest something too sad to bare. It allows me to believe that my conclusion is possible, no, probable, especially in the scripts that interest me enough to make me question and anticipate the entire film.
Every night that I actually make it home, I press my pointer nail to the wad of chewing gum in mouth, still usually fresh enough to keep mashing in my molars. I stick the schmaltz, pull the sling shot back for momentum, then flick, fling the tooth-molded gelatin flavor glob into oblivion... Or my unlamped street, more literally, since my gums' landing antecedent of flower bed ticks my dad off too much. It always has, since the old house in Indian Creek.
It's stupid that I spit it out anyway; its purpose is to cover the stale cig breath that lingers from my car ride home, though it doesn't help to mask the radiative effect emanating from my outfit. Tonight no one's awake though, so it doesn't matter... I can tell because no light shines through the windows that sandwich my door, and to get in I have to key myself. Straight to the kitchen, I place my travel mug on the counter--I've been making my own coffee before work. How grown up. Tonight I also resist the fridge's harrowing taunts. Oh, such maturity.
Every night I make it, I wake my dog as I hit the second floor landing, his collar jingles and I'm glad to be there, if only for a second. In the bathroom mirror, my last destination before a restless night in my empty queen size bed, my face looks old and worn, but zitty and weak. There is no wisdom behind those liner-smeared eyes and no clue under those light roots growing in a half inch too long, no hope for effortless beauty. I find encouragement in my profile, though; my waist's almost back to the size it was when I was smallest, except this time I'm not in the gym for two hours a day and my muscle not as toned.
It's always then when I find the scalding water spout over my finger's flesh, the burn neutralizes the itch of some skin shit, eczema or whatever, probably stress induced because I haven't had it for always, but still in the back of my mind blame the years of baking soda at pretzel palace for my defect. I hold the digits there until it hurts, rubbing both palms back and forth until I can't stand it any longer, and look into my eyes. Internally, my brain lets slip a banshie caliber holler, then caves to the scream. No thoughts occupy my mind, and it's blank. My hands are raw, my mind is numb, and it's time to start again. Or maybe better, anew. I walk down to the last bedroom of the hall, on the side of my house my brother almost burned down when he threw the chiminea ashes in the trash can some odd black Fridays ago.
Every night I lay in bed for hours is exhausting, especially when I'm this exhausted. The t.v.'s on to drown out my worries, but I'm not watching. Work in 8 hours, but gotta be up in at least seven. And that'll only tick lower and lower, 'til about four and a half, and I'll scratch my hands while the television's light flickers on, dim compared to my non-refreshable Twitter/Instagram/Facebook feeds. I'm not sure at this point my alarm will make me. Or rather, wake me. I'm not sure I'll schedule a job interview back at my Alma Mater for Thursday, or fax the request for my transcripts in time. I don't know if I'll make my lunch, or if I'll hear relieving news at my appointment after work. It's up in the air, I'm not positive. I'm capable, I just can't say what keeps me in the dark for sure. I crave the ambiguous, so this close to my every night is rather fitting. I'd rather live not knowing than settle for something too good to be true, or have to digest something too sad to bare. It allows me to believe that my ultimate conclusion is possible, no, probable, especially in a life that interests me enough to make me question and anticipate the entire time. I guess though now the only question I'm asking is

Drive me insane

A story for my creative non-fiction class, spring 2014.

My dad tossed me the keys to his little red pick-up. “So go to Wawa, tap mac,” he handed me his debit card, “and then pick up the hoagies.” My brother and I climbed in the truck and rolled out of the cul-du-sac to New Falls road. From there, it was a straight two miles tops to the Mac machine, and as I was about to make the left hand turn, I saw Joey drive by in his Jimmy. 

•

“Just make sure you grab toll money for the bridge, Coad.” I had no more than 40 cents to my name, and my check wouldn’t be directly deposited into my account until the following day.

After the Sunday closing shift, my brother and I left our mall food court jobs as the summer sun set low cast shadows over the tree tops that extend above the noise barrier. We headed down 95 for a quick exchange; Coady, with 500 cash in hand and another grand written out in check, was about to buy his first car (which wouldn’t end up running too long, as my brother pulled off our street too close to a tow truck; it was Coady’s fault, but the driver hit-and-ran.)

The silver Chevy Cav Z, a sporty stick shift Coady couldn’t yet drive sat somewhere in South Jersey, about two hours of highway away. We went down to sign papers and make ownership official since the owner was quick to dump the car, and my dad was going to take Coady down a few days later to drive it up.

•

I was 16 on the rainy November Sunday, after church, when I saw Joey and wanted to catch up to show off. I had my license for a month and three days, and though I had no car, I felt empowered in the little red pickup. Rihanna’s “Disturbia” blared through the speakers and Coady and I danced, his long 14-year-old skater mop forced flat to his forehead under a cap. I looked to my right as the new lane opened, trying to catch up to Joey, and I merged. But a tractor trailer turning into a shopping center slowed traffic, and I hopped back in the left lane, and I reached the Jimmy to my right. 

•

We met the seller at a Wawa, where he pulled up in a big, tricked-out truck that probably had a duel exhaust mod and heated leather seats. He was a 20-something spoiled adult, (he still lived at home in the highly desirable and rather affluent residential area of Ocean City,) who brought his girlfriend, an attractive blonde that lacked substance, and seemed to be there only to nag and mock her boyfriend.

From there, we followed the truck down a long, shady rural driveway to a dirt lot, apparently on the property of the home/shop of the seller’s father’s friend, who I guess inspected the vehicle before purchase, though not officially. Coady bought the car without tags, (which would prove to be a mistake when it was discovered that the break line leaked while my father drove it home a week later.) We should have known that the car would be jinxed after this trip; the obvious literary foreshadowing was as present as the leftover junk in the Caviler.   

It was hot for a summer evening while my brother handed over the cash. I waited patiently in my car with the windows down instead of running the air conditioner in an attempt to save gas and make it home, no worries.

“You couldn’t even clean the car out, Christopher?” the girlfriend bitched, rolling her eyes and grabbing his “shit,” she called it, out of Coady's purchase. I watched, envious of the girl whose boyfriend clearly spoiled her.

•

I cruised along, doing about the speed limit. Coady and I both waved at Joey, the cool Senior that dated one of my best friends at school. The lax bro was trying to get Coady to join the team, and he was probably going to do it, even though he spent more of his time biking or playing X Box. My 9th grade brother was pretty cool, and we were starting to get along again after the middle school years tipped the scale on the love/hate relationship scale to the latter.

We made small talk about Coad being able to drive soon; this license to drive more a license to freedom. We smiled and tried to get Joey’s attention, but he didn’t see us…

•

When we could finally leave, both our phones had died, but we’d be home soon and able to charge them to make plans with our friends for the evening. That’s all we ever did, make plans for the night, though we’d end up simply sitting around with our friends.

We hopped back on the highway and jammed to Wiz Khalifa (one of our few remaining common interests is music,) all the way to the Walt Whitman Bridge, the $5 toll charged only to enter Pennsylvania and not the opposite, something of an economic social commentary about the perception of the respective states.

“Can I get that toll money?” I asked while I squinted at signs for the toll only lane, steering with my left hand and sticking out my right for the bill I anticipated.

“Yeah,” as he shuffled through his wallet, reached in his pocket, then started to fidget.

“Uh… Uh… I THREW IT TO THE GUY, THE SELLER TOLD ME I SHOULD GIVE HIM SOME MONEY TO KEEP MY CAR THERE FOR THE WEEK,” he defended. While I was all “what the fuck, Coady,” he yelled back at me, and in the midst of the chaos, I managed to find the last exit before the big steel structure that ultimately held fines for crossing without payment.

I figured we had to find an A.T.M. for Coady to withdraw some bridge cash. I pulled up to a Pantry One, a generally shady string of convenience stores in the Jersey area. Kid, seemingly paranoid, left his wallet in the car before taking his card into the store. He has that nervous way about him sometimes, not quite ready to dive in, hesitant. In this case, there were dirty looking loiterers outside the door, so I felt his trepidation was warranted, judgment aside.

I waited for my brother annoyed, but not yet anxious, until he returned to the car.

“So… we’re fucked. I withdrew the limit from my account today.”

“HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE?” But then, I realized—he just bought that damn car, the car that had us stuck here in New Jersey, and not just Jersey, but Camden.

There were 67 murders in Camden that year, plus all the rapes and robberies, making it the highest crime rated city in the U.S. And my 17-year-old brother and I were here, alone.

By now, our shitty cellphone batteries both dead and accounts inaccessible, I pulled out my G.P.S. to try and find our way to the free bridge that spanned the Delaware in Trenton, only 20 minutes from my house. But that was also dead, and the cigarette lighter outlets that could charge any electronics in my whip were broken. Shitouttaluck.

•

The speed in which the car twisted is both unforgettable and unrememberable.

“FUCK!” Coady screamed, which was weird, because we always told on each other when we cursed. We were such tattle tales, always trying to escape the persecution, ultimately a “grounding,” by drawing attention to the other’s foul ups and mischievous deeds.

It wasn't always bad though. I recall playing on the side of the house, eating honeysuckles from the bush next to the oil tank. We'd play video games all night, and go for bike rides to places we weren't allowed. There was that one time, though, he beat me with a whiffle ball bat while I tried to climb down from the silver maple in our front yard...

Snap.

“YOU HIT A FUCKING COP!”

I opened the eyes that I closed upon contact. The little red truck was now facing the shopping center to my left, perpendicular to the white dashed and yellow solid paint that marked the lanes. 

All I could do was yell, maybe bellow, “AHHHHHHH,” as I began to cry and smack my hands on the steering wheel while the little red truck beeped and fizzed, “Disturbia” still droning in the background.

•

I turned down the rap that blasted the “n” word from my speakers as I drove away from the bridge and convenience store. We were two white kids entering a tough neighborhood, and I was not prepared for any awkward and/or risky encounters.

The next events were a cluster of chaos; cars rolled by bearing full-sized Puerto Rican flags or skull and cross bone banners, bungee corded to the hoods. Women’s legs hung out of their hydraulic convertibles, passengers and drivers alike. Police drove around the dilapidated homes. The sidewalk stoops were a scene out of a ghetto “Hey Arnold,” where neighbors drank 40s out of paper bags and smoked long, thin cigars on porches. And everywhere, in cars or on the streets, people were screaming and yelling and laughing like they were tailgating a sporting event.

“I just need to find out how to get to Trenton, then we’ll be cool,” I tried to reassure my brother. But he was not having any of that, and continued to belittle my directional ability. It started to get dark, and I was panic stricken. Plus, could I even make it to Trenton with this much gas? Our hearts were pounding as I circled around and around for about an hour, stuck, trying to get to a highway north.

We were practically biting our fingernails, at risk of sounding racist, not because we hadn’t been exposed to ‘Ricans or black people, but because this was not our turf. Plus, when the people all around us were hollering, what were we supposed to think? Other than…

                “We’re lost. Shit, shit, shit. What are we going to do? Where are we going to go?” Expletive after expletive, us going nowhere, too scared to pull in anywhere for fear that someone would mess with us.

•

I unbuckled while Coady dialed my dad. Coad wasn’t nice to me, but I didn’t deserve it, and I can't say he was mean either. Other than his angry bossy moments, (which come few and far between these days,) Coady never seems like he’s happy, nor upset, to be with me.  We’re just in each other’s company constantly.

My mom used to tell the story: “When you went to kindergarten on your first day, we walked down to the bus stop, and as soon as you stepped off those steps, you ran! And Coad ran, and you hugged each other on the sidewalk like you were gone for weeks.” We’d roll our eyes when she told this and get right back to bickering.

I got out of the truck that I was sure was totaled and walked to the Sargent’s S.U.V. in front of me. It didn’t look too bad, but the hatchback door was dented inward, clearly impacted from my 45 m.p.h. neglect to notice he stopped in the left lane and not the turning lane.

I approached his open driver’s side door hysterical, trembling, and lost on a road I travel every day.

“Are you okay?” When he didn’t answer, or even look at me, I spat out, “I’m so sorry, I’m so, so sorry, are you okay?” He said nothing, but he wasn’t bleeding. He just grasped his wrist, the deployed airbag flattened down like a pillowcase.

Someone wandered over to me and asked if I was okay, it turned out she was the passenger from the third car involved, rear-ended by the cop, consequently on my behalf. But I had no idea who anyone was, until another officer showed up and sat me on the curb. My blubbering mess warranted Chief to request a dollar from my dad so he could buy me a soda. Dad politely declined.

•

I drove toward the hospital, thinking that this was an exit, but dead-ends and circles in the Jersey city brought us right back to the chaotic heart of Camden. Coady was noticeably irritated, which pissed me off. I was doing him a favor. He didn’t need to buy the car that day.

Sorry I don’t know my way around the hood, dick bag. Sorry your dumb ass is the reason we’re in this predicament. Sorry my car blows and we can’t charge anything, but this is not my fault. 

I rolled up and down the streets, the sun getting lower and lower, and the screams seeming to get louder and louder.

“What is going on here?” Coady and I kept asking one another, “Is there like some holiday or sports game going on?”

Suddenly, I saw a lady police officer directing traffic on the corner a few blocks away, the sun setting behind her head like the glow of a halo—my opportunity to find safety, to find our way home. I pulled the car up and stopped. When she tried to wave me on, I waved her over.

“Excuse me,” I asked the cop, “Can you tell me how to get to Trenton?”

“Huh?” she asked, so I repeated. “Oh, you gotta take this road out, over the street bridge, then make a left and hop on the entrance for north,” she said, with some highway number included. It took us another half-hour to find the road, but once we were on it, my grip on the wheel loosened.

•

Since New Falls Road is on the line of two townships, the police showed up in full force, as if someone had robbed a bank. My parents pulled up on the scene, and the cops questioned me somewhere in there, though there wasn’t much to say. I never told about Joey, even throughout the court proceedings that would stick with me until my junior year of college, a lie that I hoped would save me from more fines than I’d already endure.

Dad cleaned out the truck, as Coady struggled to tell the questioning officer his birthday, a family joke that plagues the kid 6-years-later. I just sobbed on the curb until the officer told my parents to take me home, my presence probably more pestering than helpful. We went to Freshworks to pick up lunch, and life went on for everyone except me; I couldn’t bring myself to drive for another two months.

•

It was night when I drove north with uncertainty, even though the signs “Trenton- 40 mi.” appeared and reappeared with decreasing numerals for about an hour. The highway ebbed between miscellaneous shopping centers and stretches of woods, but then, finally, we knew where we were.  I took the Capitol Complex exit and headed to the bridges, the glowing “Trenton Makes, The World Takes” sign beckoning. Approaching the light before the bridge, a big Suburban erratically followed me, honking and swerving.

Coady repeatedly commented, “What the hell is wrong with him?” until the douche merged in front of us before the bridge.  We followed him back into Pa., laughing and joking about the nutty ordeal, where I traveled to Route 13, then back into the Terrace.

The Terrace is a hood, minus the neighbor. Shootings, stabbings; they happen here. I cut through the section because one, I often do, but two, why not? We survived Camden…

Almost home; we pulled up to the light exiting the section and let out a sigh too soon. My brother beside me gasped, and eyes focused on the red light ahead, I asked, “what?”

“Look,” he uttered. So I did, and I saw something that I’ll never, ever forget. On the bus stop bench sat a deer, well, the head of a deer, eyes open, and a long thing I can only describe as pantyhose-like hung down over the bench and reached the ground.

Coady fumbled for the camera he brought to take pictures of his new car’s vin number, and I repeated more curse words while nervous-laughing than ever thought imaginable. The light changed, and I peeled out.

When we got home, my mom bitched at us for not calling, clearly having hit the bottle while we took our detour. They had ordered pizza and left us none. She told us we should have just taken the bridge and they’d bill us. We were so excited to be home, but with that welcome, we left.     

•

I drove Coady to our bank’s A.T.M. one night in the same car I drove to Camden. Only 40 or so yards from the spot where I crashed the little red truck, we waited for a red light to blink back to green. I was typically annoyed with Coady, making me drive to deposit his check because he totaled his shitty Cav. We sat at the light, getting along all right despite my irritation. The tension always seemed to be there; we could hang out, but I always felt some type of way toward him. The tip of the iceberg always comes out in the form of my bitchiness, but the bigger part of the iceberg is a mystery because I’m sailing the ocean, too. 

The light changed on the empty road, and I shifted my foot to the gas pedal. I slowly started through the intersection when I saw the light flying from the right, and slammed back on the break. The car passed through its red light only a few feet in front of us, and we could have been struck. We both sighed, another simple trip that went whack, but not so wrong that there was no coming back.

                We talk now about our family; our grandparent’s declining health and our guilt, our father’s drinking habits and our fear, our mother’s mental state and our disgust. He mostly gets annoyed with me for spitting out every little thing that happens in my life, mainly the dramatic stuff.

                “You put your business out there too much, on Twitter and stuff.”

                “I know, but if I keep it all inside, I’ll never let it go. I need to get everything out or I’ll dwell. It’ll eat me alive.”

                “I don’t tell anyone anything,” he finally admits, “I don’t know why. I’d just rather keep my business to myself. I… I just don’t see the point.”

                “Maybe if you opened up more, you wouldn’t be so angry. Maybe if you expressed yourself, someone could understand.”

                “I know.” He always knows.

We don’t deal with our problems; we push them away. Through all the rough days, my brother’s been there, not for me, but experiencing with me. We get that we don’t know how to express ourselves, especially to each other, but that tiny understanding is enough to bring us together in the worst-of-times. And since worst usually comes to worst, I’m glad that I’m not driving down this road alone.

But still, it's discomforting that when all of this nutty shit happens, I'm in the driver's seat.