Memories of Christian (I)

At fifteen, Brian and I loved comics, and we often spent afternoons with various issues spread out on the carpet, with cartoons showing on TV. His sister always made fun of us; Brian would try to annoy her back though I never minded it.

On one occasion, Jennifer walked through the living room, her honey tinted hair flowing. I gazed at her doll-like features, the t-shirt of a cute smiley face with razor sharp teeth, forgetting all about stories of crazy super Earthlings and aliens who fought for world domination (again).

“Brock, get a girlfriend…” and there she goes, off to her sanctuary somewhere away from our comics, just as a semi-witty retort finally arrives in my mind. Brian chuckles.

Her British (though sometimes I suspect Australian) boyfriend Christian patted me on the back. Both at eighteen, I suppose they were old enough for things like ponytails, ear rings, and making fun of younger people.

“It’s OK dude, she’s just playing with you,” Christian tried to sound comforting.
“What? Oh please, I wasn’t gonna cry or anything,” I tried to laugh hoping that my eyes looked dry.
“Oh sure, if you say so,” Brian busted out laughing.

I needed to change the subject, “so what kinda stuff do you do all day, Christian?”
“Now THAT entails a very wide range of activities, Brock,” he looked at the watch, then back at me.
“Tell us about that trip you took to England a while ago,” Brian’s eyes brightened with probably genuine interest. Christian brushed his stubby chin, grabbed his jacket and grinned with a particular brand of immortality, “Let’s go outside, I’ll tell you about it over a cigarette.”

An early January evening, swarms of crimson cloud raced through the sky. The tainted glow washed over the streets, my flesh along with Brian’s. Christian remained alabaster pale, as if the evening light traveled through him.

The Trudeaus owned a cozy three bedroom house with square front and back yards just enough to require an hour of lawn mowing every couple of weeks. Brian closed the gate as Christian leaned against the fence, and held the butt of a cigarette between his teeth.

“Fuck…” his lighter had run dry, and he looked annoyed.
“Um, don’t British people say ‘bloody hell’ or something instead of ‘fuck’?” Brian asks, scratching his head. The smell of his freshly mowed lawn has mesmerized me; I cared little for Christian’s vacations.

With the cigarette still between his teeth, he chucked the lighter into one of Brian’s garbage cans on the curb. Christian closed his eyes for the moment, and I wondered if he had fallen asleep standing up.
“Well, I think there’s some matches in the kitchen…” Brian turns toward the house. And it happened.

Scorching, sizzling, the tip of his cigarette burst into flames, and Christian opened his eyes once more, smiling. Back in those days, I did not even know the term “pyrokinesis”, only “OH what the… what the hell was that?”

Day 2, Part II of II

Bluish gray clouds pile up in the sky. Thin rays of sunshine sneak through and spot the pavement outside of Moulin Rouge. We used to walk here every Saturday afternoon, Brian and I, and talk about each other’s concerns and dreams. He was not close to Justin Tang however, my only other close friend from school. They had certain discrepancies in beliefs.

“He used to be so happy Brock; you guys were such good friends in high school,” Jennifer sips on her milky, sugary in-house coffee. I nod, not sure if she noticed but she continues nevertheless.

“Lately, he’s become despondent.”

“Oh, what does that mean?” I raise an eyebrow.

“Withdrawn, he was scared of something. I think it was the drugs, Brian had started smoking meth, and he might have been in trouble with the dealers.” She swallows hard, holding back the shame of the affiliation.

“I am sorry, Jen. I really am.”

Already half gone, I take another large gulp of the black stimulant. She looks down at her nails, looking a little perplexed as if not sure if she wanted to utter her next thought. And I break the silence,

“He was a good man. I will always remember him that way.”

“He said you knew what he’s scared of, that you know about “them”. Said I’d think he’s crazy if he told me.” Her cerulean eyes all of sudden burned with intensity. My left eye sensed her gaze.

“What?” She thinks I have something to do with Brian’s death. Somewhere in the room the echo laughter commenced again, a distinctly female tone, but it is also likely I have become delirious.

“Jen…” With a trembling hand, I manage to kill the remaining coffee. A waitress walks by and takes the empty cup casually, without any eye contact. Jennifer waits for me to continue.

“Yes I was a bad influence, a messed up kid, but never have I ever intentionally hurt Brian in anyway. He was someone I could count on and I tried hard to do the same in return.” It doesn’t matter if she perceives my conviction, the truth backs my words.

“Brock, listen to me. I need to know who Brian feared. I want them dead, god damn it all…” The tears have dried; her voice now radiates iron determination.

“Jen, this is difficult,” Choosing my next words very carefully, “Brian and I, before I left, had seen things… “

Day 2, Part I of II

“Brent, you up yet?” I like to annoy my younger cousin. He tends to sleep in on Saturdays.

“Brock… it’s eight in the morning.” Then he mumbles something about leaving the phone unplugged.

“Come on let’s get some breakfast.” Been up since five, I feel ravenous.

“Whaa…?” I think he fell back asleep.

“How about some spectacular pancakes and sizzling bacon at Moulin Rouge?” As kids, we always liked that place for the pancakes, though the coffee sometimes offered more jolt than expected.

“…” Whatever dreams I broke him out of, have managed to win him back.

The phone sits back in the cradle, and it starts ringing.

“What is it?” Slightly annoyed, I think about the sweet maple syrup at Moulin Rouge.

“Brock?” A quivering female voice, though not distinct enough to recognize.

“Yeah, who is this?” Pulling on socks, I have become properly attired for the pancake attack.

“It’s Jennifer, Jennifer Trudeau?” Brian Trudeau was a closes friend in high school; I hope he has not disclosed my childhood crush for his older sister. Lately, Brian’s email messages have become less frequent.

“Oh… Hi Jen, how’s Brian?” My head racing, ‘Please don’t mention the time you walked in on me doing number two in the basement bathroom…’

“Brian’s dead.” She sounds empty, and her eyes probably staring through everything.

“What?” My heart skips a beat, “What the hell happened?”

“They killed him Brock, they killed him!” She starts to sob quietly. I listen, voiceless as the darkness swims at the corners of my vision.

“Can we meet?” She asks softly and breaks the deafening silence…

Moulin Rouge. I ordered two cups of coffee for the both of us, my appetite has vanished. They came on a silver platter with plenty of cream for Jennifer. Besides the dark hair dye, she put no make up on and looked just as I had remembered.

“Brock! Is that you, boy?” Johnny Dockery, the owner of the establishment once played football alongside my dad.

“Hi Mr. Dockery, yeah I’m back in town.” I manage a strained smile, with Jennifer sitting across the table. He sees and perhaps noticed her watery eyes, and softens his tone.

“If there’s anything you two need, just let me know alright? Welcome back, son,” he smiled and walked off.

“Are you alright, Jen?” I take a few meaningless swirls with the black coffee, not sure if I wanted eye contact immediately.

“It happened last night.” An image of Brian holding a handgun flashed before me.

Her voice flat and weary, she continues. “A neighbor heard the shot, and the sheriff found him inside.” A string of tears begin to trickle down, as I listen intently.

“Jim Sanders said it’s unquestionably a suicide…” Small town, everyone knew each other by name, especially the police chief. (He hates the nick “Colonel Sanders”.)

“What do you think?” I ask attentively. Feint laughter emerges somewhere, but soon drowned out by the other patrons.

“He has changed, Brock…”

It Begins

The rain pounds on the pavement as I sip coffee, sitting just outside the café with my backpack resting in another chair. Black, with no milk or sugar, the flavor attacks with bitterness. College years had kept me away, yet the smell of morning air and sound of droplets feel like yesterday.

"Brock. Looking good man," Justin descends upon me with a firm handshake.
“You too. How’ve you been?” He takes the second cup waiting on the table and gestures a 'thanks, but you didn’t have to'.
“Getting ready for law school, it’s tough out there but I think they’ll always have demand for corporate lawyers.” He grimaces to the hot and bitter coffee “Damn I need some cream in this...”, and off he goes inside the shop.

“Brock? Is that you? It’s Tommy, 10th grade US history, 94?” A total stranger.
“Sure, hey Tommy what’s up.” My obviously feigned recollection does not perplex him, his smile widens as Justin walks out.
“Oh what’s going on, Tom,” Justin doesn’t seem all too thrilled seeing him.
“Well I’ve been just great, my business is booming! You guys looking to go into business for yourself any time?” His eyes opened up some more and his feet shuffled like some crazed monkey-boy thing.
“Well... what are you offering?” Hell, it wouldn’t kill to ask right? I take a bigger gulp of the brewed black liquid.
“Ok fellas, have you ever heard of ‘Amway’?” Tommy’s whole face lit up, as if begging us to feel the joy, too.
“What the hell is that?” I feel all of sudden stirred by Tommy’s now apparent fat gut and the not-so-slick haircut.
“Ugh, isn’t that a pyramid scheme?” Justin does not even give him eye contact as he picks and lights up a cigarette, then offers me one.

And Tommy’s voice becomes drowned out by the stampede of rain along rush of the winds.

“You got me started on these cancer sticks, remember that?” Justin breaks the silence. Tommy is long gone.
“Shit man, I was a real screw up back then.” Recollections of bad choices fill me with disgust.
“Don’t worry about it dude, everybody makes mistakes,” and we both take a heavy drag and exhaled practically in concert. Feint smoke swims and disperses into the rain.
“You got any plans?” Justin continues, as I almost sink into another day dream.
“Yeah, I have a few ideas. Gonna do my own things man, I don’t wanna struggle for some bullshit wage. This 4 year degree doesn’t do much anymore.” Lots of ideas have crossed my mind, though none have yet to show any real promise money wise.
“It’s hard, I know.” He has always supported my ideas, and I can tell when he does it unenthusiastically.
“Nobody said life’s meant to be easy...” I hear myself citing, but a rain drop on the almost burnt cigarette caught my attention.
“Welcome back to town,” and we laughed quietly, reminiscent of the old times.