By David Muir
About two days after we paid a visit to her second oldest brother, he was found dead near the couch on the floor of his living room. Her youngest brother, who was also the roommate of the deceased came home to the Milwaukee apartment only to pull back the large black German shepherd, who was still licking the beloved brother’s face. One brother attempted to shake, shout and cry another brother back to life. He was hours too late. The 6’ 8” twenty-four year-old had suffered a heart attack. As he was known to like his drugs, most suspected his vices had gotten the better of him. The autopsy preserved the family’s honor.
Haleybeth, my woman, took the death of her younger brother hard. She and her other two surviving brothers, who were unusually tall people, saw doctors immediately after the funeral. They were told that although not unusual for people of their height to have a small chance of heart failure, there was a minimal chance of another member of the family suffering the same fate. Her youngest brother suffered a heart attack less than two months later.
After being told by church leaders that it was God's will, her parents lost their religion. Her father rarely shared words. They left the church and avoided its members. Her mother fell into a two to three week long deep depression before regaining her will, her ability to walk, talk, stop shaking, or keep her eyes open and dry. The eldest brother, who had the same summer wedded his love of ten years feared for his life.
For reasons completely pragmatic in nature, I had to break up with Haleybeth. I did so the same summer. I’ll never forget the shrieking, bawling and the loss of breath. Minutes after my front door slammed I went to my front window. Her car had not moved. She sat crying. After about fifteen minutes, I decided it was unsafe to let her drive. I slipped on sandals, went downstairs and peeked into her car only to find her dead.
When I came out of the police station it started to hail. I didn’t bother to cover myself. Each pelt against my head, face, ears, back, chest, stomach, arms and legs helped to deflate the tension. I pulled out my phone to check the time. The screen got binged by hail. The cops had questioned me for at least two and a half hours only to conclude that the only thing I was guilty of was being a complete asshole. What a waste. A call to my mother would have saved us all a shit-load of time. Ladies her age don’t lie about their mistakes.
All the police questions raised severe personal issues. I stumbled through questions, then stumbled through the hail wondering if I was guilty. I began to think that I should own her death. I wasn’t there for Haley when she needed me most. Why? I put it in the box with being neglected as a child. I never had anyone, for anything, so I just couldn’t see why anyone else needed others. Fuck it. Fuck it. Just fuck it. I was wrong. I knew I was wrong, but I could do nothing to right the situation. Nothing... Nothing.
Romero, an ex-ultimate fighter turned Mexican drug cartel bodyguard before becoming one of Eastern Europe’s most notable up and coming porn movie actor - directors sat at the corner in a small, loud car. It wasn’t just loud sonically, but visually as well. Although it was a Zipcar, it sported tinted windows and sat on twenty-two inch rims. It was silver with subtle sparkles. A window slid down with a squeak. I heard my name through a heavy Latin American accent, stepped to the car and got in. Sitting under a white Kangol and a silver Adidas sweatsuit with white stripes, Romero went on and on about how his industry is actually attracting a great deal of talent due to artists using the porn medium to get quick online exposure – plus, all the creative freedom they could ask for. Passing me a blunt that looked like a small carrot, he listed notable music producers, musicians, writers, stagecraft crews and even few A-List actors who were leveraging the porn industry’s resilience in one way or another. The hail was on and off.
After on and on, yadah-yadah-yah about all the talent he had lined up, Romero, who now prefers to be called Rome, informed me that we were going to a party. I asked him two questions. The hail stopped. One, how long did it take to stick enough Swishers together to roll a blunt this size? And two, did Zipcar have a special rental niche for rappers and porn stars? No. Three questions: One, how long did it take to stick enough Swishers together to roll a blunt this size? And two, did Zipcar have a special rental niche for rappers and porn stars? And three, Rome? He called me a fuckin’ ingrate, pinche maricon and some other colorful shit before threatening to dump me out on the next corner. I looked Rome in the eyes waiting for an answer. There was none. High, we laughed so hard we had to pull over. He never answered my questions. When we caught our breath he pushed play on what he called “rolas”, 1950’s to early 1970’s slow songs. The songs were beautiful – dark with an extra helping of heavy on the heartache.
We crossed railroad tracks and pulled into a parking lot in Chicago’s meatpacking district. Minutes later we entered a warehouse turned lofts. After a series of buzzing gates and doors we stood snorting coke in what looked like a pimped out service elevator. Rome snorted three hits from the bullet, then hit 3. When the doors slid open we were met with some sort of performance art meets film shoot for a porn orgy set as a rave. Or some shit like that. I couldn’t tell. It was rappers, groupies and porn celebs throughout. Before being introduced to Rome’s new gang of friends and associates, I took another hit of coke. I followed the coke with a blunt, then clipped a bottle of Pigs Nose from a table set as a self serve bar. I was fucked up now. I took the bottle to the head and bopped around once I reached the center of the dance floor. It felt good. I was relieved. My worries receded… Receded… Receded, but not in a good way. More like the hairline of a coke addict.
Hours later I sat in one of the side rooms on a couch across from Rome and two of his friends. They were showing Rome what they could do. It got hot fast. A third came in, turned off her phone and closed the door. Clothes came off as we snorted line after line, after line. Rome entertained all three. I sat back and enjoyed the show. I took countless hits of coke, then another. Fuck it. I looked up and tried to inhale, but I couldn’t catch my breath. My chest tightened. My head banged. My jaw hurt. My arms tingled. I couldn’t pull it together. Pleasure went to panic. My eyes shot across the coffee table. I failed to get the attention of Rome and the girls. They fucked loud. My stomach tightened. Fuck! I caught a stomach cramp. My heart felt as if a nail was being driven through it. I saw hail. I saw hail. Hail. It came down hard and bright. I heard the girls. They screamed. I saw Rome. He spoke Spanish. One brother attempted to shake, shout and cry another brother back to life. Fuck. How could I? I fucked up. Fuck. I wasn’t going to make it. I was sorry.