“A Brother’s Love”

Travis Rivas

Well it’s a marvelous night for a moondance with the stars up above in your eyes... I turn the volume up on the radio to hear Van Morrison better. It’s hard to hear when the desert night air is whipping past your face at eighty miles an hour.   Mom loves this song so much, she used to have me play it for her on my guitar all the time when I was a kid , I thought my fingers would bleed from playing it over and over again. The dial, covered in sand from the desert breeze, sticks to my fingers.  Gotta remember to wash my hands. It’s bad enough that the interior of Pop’s old ‘65 El Dorado convertible looks like the Sahara from all the dust storms, but getting the radio dirty is just uncalled for.  If Dad could see his baby right now, he’d give me a few lumps, that’s for sure.  Dad loved old cars.  In fact the only thing he loved more than his family was booze and cars.  That’s how I got my name.  Named after the Tucker, or as dad liked to call it “the best Goddamn piece of metal to have four wheels slapped on it.” Whatever that meant.  Jamison, my younger brother, was named after my fathers favorite drink, Jamison whiskey. Yup, that’s us. The man and his dream and his favorite drink.

 Man I’ve been out here a long time.  How long ago did I pass Barstow? An hour? Maybe two?  Am I still on the 15?  Damnit Tucker! Pay attention for once in your Goddamned life!  Dad always told you to pay attention, said you’d never amount to anything if you didn’t pay attention to reality and what was going on around you.  “I know what’s happening around me!” I’d tell him

“I just don’t like what I see so I choose to pay attention to other things like music and art!”  I thought I knew everything. God how old was I? Sixteen...no wait seventeen.  Last time we had that conversation was a month before...Shit! What did that sign say? The car fishtails as I bring her to a halt.  It’s about 2 a.m. on an empty highway, I doubt anyone cares if I back up an eighth of a mile. “Milly’s Café. Open 24 hours.  Best blueberry pie this side of the Nevada border.  Next Exit.”  Perfect. A place to wash up. 

The Café isn’t hard to find; it’s right off the highway.  Whatever highway this is.  I quickly slip into the bathroom.  Filling the sink with water I clean away all the dirt and grime.  Making a cup with my hands, I bring the cleansing fluid to my face.  I’m suddenly sixteen again and back at my parents house.

“Tucker, put your guitar down and go wash up for dinner! And tell your father and brother it’s time to come eat.”   Pops and Jamison are in the garage, working on the Cadillac again . Their baby. They always did, just the two of them, like they had some little club and if you didn’t know the difference between a ‘67 and ‘68 mustang then you couldn’t play. 

I call out “Dinner!”  Dad half-mumbles an acknowledgment and a curse at his baby at the same time. 

Jamison’s response is more insulting.  “Be there in a sec, squirt.”

“I’m older than you are.”

“And whose taller?”

                Bastard.  Always rubs it in my face how he’s bigger than his older brother.  “And how’d you get that shiner?”  Jamison shoots me a glance that says ‘not funny’, and I just give him ahalf-smile.  The same smile I give whenever I win.    Jamison and I always fight about something, and whenever we do, pops puts boxing gloves on us and says ‘have at it.’  I dunno if he thought we would actually go through with it or if he just needed some entertainment after he just slammed down a twelve-pack. But we always fought, I always won, and that pisses Jamison off more than any argument.

“Go get washed up Jami, we’ll finish working on the car after dinner.”  It’s a lie, Jamison and I both know it. After dinner, Jamison and I do the dishes, then dad has me play my guitar for him, “drinking music” he calls it. After an hour or so he passes out. 

While Jamison and I do are doing the dishes, he whispers to me “After dad goes to bed meet me out back.” 

   I show up how I usually do.  Wearing a pair of jeans, no shirt, with my boxing gloves on.  Jamison shows up the same, except he’s wearing his boxing trunks instead of jeans. So here we are again, ready to do what we’ve done a hundred times before.  The wind brushes against my exposed skin causing goose flesh to burrow up out of the skin of my arms. My body gives a quiet tremble but I quickly restrain it. Can’t show any sign of weakness to your opponent.  I gaze up.  The moon looks much bigger than it usually does.  The lone spectator inches closer to the dance that will take place underneath it’s glow.   I wonder what has him so worked up, so I ask.  “What is it this time, baby brother?  Why am I out here freezing my ass off when I could be inside all nice and cozy in my bed?”

“You don’t get it do you, little brother?”  He’s trying to get me worked up; he’s doing a good job, too.  I don’t care why he’s being a brat, but I’ll knock it right out of him.

“I’ll try not to give you another black eye.” I taunt but Jamison is already throwing punches.  He starts out with a right hook like he always does.  I block and give him a jab straight to the face.  A new record: ten seconds into the fight and I already gave him a split lip.  We dance for what seems like forever.  We dance until steam comes off our flesh.  We dance until we’ve both gotten our licks in.  Finally, I give him one last jab to the gut and a finishing upper cut.  Jamison’s on the ground, and all I can think about are my hands.  I probably won’t be able to play my guitar for at least a week.  I help him up and get him inside, and I never ask why he is upset.

A wave of arctic water slaps me in the face as I look in the mirror.  Who is this man? I’m back at the café.  I pick up my guitar case...guitar case? I don’t remember bringing it in with me.  I decide, since I’m here, what’s the harm in getting a bite to eat?  I sit down at the table, and a woman who has seen one too many scorching desert days comes up to me; I assume this creature is Milly. “What can I get ya?”

Before I can even think it’s coming out of my mouth.  “A shot of Jamison whiskey...wait...no...um burger and a soda please.”  Whiskey.  I haven’t battled that demon in years.  And now just like everything else it’s coming back to me. I pull out the guitar and start strumming a few chords.  Before I know it I’m playing “The Sound of Silence” and singing along as well.  I close my eyes. 

I’m seventeen again and my father is dead.  I knew my father would die before I was twenty,  I just knew it. Of course if I had to put money on it I would have thought it would have been cirrhosis of the liver, not a heart attack.  My mother, brother and I are at the reading of the

will.  I’m not really paying attention, and all I can thing of is how my father is dead and I’m not crying?  It’s not like I hated him.  He was a good father and a good man.  He never hit my brother or me, not when he was drunk at least.  That he left to us.  It’s just that I didn’t know the man.  After seventeen years you think you would know someone.  I guess that doesn’t apply to family.  He was always telling me to pay attention, or to forget my dream of playing guitar for a living and focus on a real career, yet he had me play for him almost every night.  I didn’t know this man, and he didn’t know me and yet there’s no doubt in my mind that we loved each other.  So why aren’t I crying.   I glance over at Mother, her face is a mess with black mascara tears running down her face.  Holding her hand is Jamison.  Like me, he isn’t crying, but unlike me, he’s visibly holding back.  It’s taking everything he has not to cry.  I study my brother.  He spent hours a day with my father fixing up that Cadillac which they had just finished a month ago.  When they were out there I’m sure they talked about anything and everything, but about what I’ll never know.   As I look at my brother he looks as if he’s going to crack, like he can’t hold the tears back anymore, and any second now the flood gates will burst open and he won’t be able to stop.  He glances up at me, and sees that I don’t have a single tear or even a red puffy eye.  He looks at me, gives me a slight nod, and he doesn’t cry.  So why am I here?  Why did my father have a will?  He didn’t have anything of value other than the house which he had left to mom, and his car which he had left to me.  What?! “Excuse me what was that?”

 “And to my oldest son, Tucker,  I leave my most prized possession, my 1965 El Dorado Convertible.”  That didn’t make any sense. Why would dad leave me the car that he and Jamison spent so much time fixing up?  I’m not a car guy.  All I know is how to drive them, and even then

not very well.  I glance over at Jamison again, instead this time I’m not calm or collected.  My mouth is wide open; I’m in disbelief of what I just heard.  Jamison just gives me a look, a look I’ve seen one too many times; that look that says “After dad goes to bed meet me out back.”  It’s night time.  Jamison and I meet just like we always do, dressed in the same clothes we’re always dressed in,  except this time I’m not wearing any gloves, and neither is he.  I know why we’re here, even if he doesn’t know.  We both want the same thing, the only tangible piece of our father left.  He wants it because he feels like he deserves it, because of all the work he put into it, and I want it because it’s the only thing he ever gave me.  He’s mad.  He has every right to be, but so am I.  Mad that its come to this.  Mad because the one thing that should bring Jamison and I closer together forces us back to the dance.  Mad at the man who left us in this position for what he has condemned us to.

“I want the car,” he mutters through clenched teeth. 

“I know.”  He comes at me with his right hook just like he always does, except this time instead of blocking it I grab his arm and his left shoulder, and give him a knee straight to the gut.  Jamison doubles over.  “You can’t have it.” I turn and leave him in the night gasping for air.  I finish up my song just in time as the food arrives.  My face is covered in tears.

“That was nice,” says Milly, placing the plate in front of me. 

Between sniffs I manage to get a few words out.  “Thanks, I haven’t played in years.” I brush my hand across my face, wiping the tears away.  That must have been...seven? Was it seven years ago? Wait what’s the date? The sixteenth? Seven years ago today.

“Well I guess it’s one of those things you never forget, like riding a bike.”

“Never learned how.”

“What’s that?”

“I never learned how to ride a bike.”

“It’s not nice to tease an old lady.”

Her quaintness brings a smile back to my face.  “I ain’t foolin’.”

“Well how’s that now?”

“When I was seven my grandparents bought me a brand-new bike.  It must have taken them six months to save up for it.  I was the talk of the block because none of the other kids had seen a new bike before.  The only catch was that I didn’t know how to ride.  I begged my dad for months to teach me, but he was to busy showing my brother how to take out a radiator in under two minutes.  Damn thing just sat in the garage gathering dust before they gave it... Hell, I think it might still be there.  The funny part is mom told me the real reason he never taught me was because he didn’t know how to ride himself and he was just too embarrassed to say so.”

We sit in silence while the sting of a second wave of tears sits behinds my eyes; finally Milly breaks the tension.  “It’s hard to look weak in front of your children.”  I can barely squeak out an acknowledgment.  Again Milly rescues me from my tears. “So... you don’t look like your from around here.”

“I’m not. I’m from L.A.”

“Ah I see. On your way to Vegas now are you, hon?”

“Um... I don’t know.  I got home from my weekly A.A. meeting, and I just felt restless.        

 Like I just needed to get out of the house.  My brother lives in Vegas, but I’m not heading there.”  Or am I?  It all makes sense now.  The drive through the desert.  The memories.  Dad died seven years ago today and I’m in the middle of nowhere.  I know what this is about now.  I have to see him, I have to see Jamison.  “Can you excuse me for a sec? I need to make a call.”

“Sure thing, honey.  If you need anything you just holler.”

The phone is ringing before I even realized that I dialed his number.  It’s 3 a.m. on a Wednesday and I’m calling my little brother.

                “‘Lo?”

                “Jami, it’s me.”

“Do you realize what time it is.”

“Yeah, and I can tell by your voice you weren’t sleeping.” 

He waits a beat before asking, “What do you want?” 

“I want to see you.” 

“What the hell for?”

 “Beats the hell out of me.” Another beat. 

“Where are you?”  I tell him where I am. He knows where it is and says he’ll be here in an hour and a half.  Before he goes I throw in one last detail.

 “Oh and Jami, bring your gloves.”

I’m 21 again, and it’s the four year anniversary of my dad’s death .  Mom got remarried

about two years after dad died. He’s a nice enough guy, doesn’t drink, doesn’t spend every waking moment in the garage on some heap that he spent half a month’s paycheck on.  Mom loves him, Jamison hates him, and I’m too drunk to care either way.  They say you’re fifty percent more likely to be an alcoholic if you’re the son of one.  That’s the other thing my father left me, the other part of his great legacy.  So here I am, in some dive bar, where the stench of cigarettes mixes with the vomit on the floor, and the crack of the pool balls screams over the blaring  jukebox.  I know everyone’s story because on any night of the week you can find me here.    I’m in this joint  and in walks my brother.  “You’re not allowed to be in here!” the bartender barks. 

“It’s ok, Lou.  He’s with me.” I take a swig of my beer as Jamison seats himself next to me.  “C’mon Jami, have a drink with your big brother.  Lou, two shots of Jamison whiskey!”  Lou mumbles something about serving a minor, but he gets lost in the noises of the bar.

  “Mom’s worried about you,” Jamison says. 

Without ever looking up from my drink I respond, “Well as you can see I’m just fine.” 

“Right, because coming home blitzed and puking in the closet thinking it’s the john every night is the first sign of fine.” 

“Yeah I thought my shoes felt a bit squishy.”

“You shouldn’t be drinking alone, Tucker.”

 “I’m not alone.  I got my good friends Jack, Jose, and Jamison to keep me company.”  I smash my hand down, screaming at Lou for those shots.

 “Look at you, if only dad could see you he’d...”

I cut him off.  “He’d be proud to see I’m following in his footsteps.” With that I realize that this won’t be solved with words, looking up from my drink I see that he feels the same way.  We step up and head outside to the back alley.  The alley is worse than the bar, instead of cigarettes and vomit it’s cigarettes and urine.  It takes everything I have not to waste all that money I dumped inside my body.  I’m drunk, can’t see straight, I’m not in my right mind, but I still know I can kick my brother’s ass.  I don’t wait for his right hook.  This time I throw the first punch.  I land the first one square on his jaw, the second on his left cheek, the third to his gut, the fourth, the fifth, the sixth.  I lose count as it turns from a brawl into a beating.  Thump.  Thump. Thump.  I black out.  I don’t even know what going on and I’m still fighting.  When I wake up I’m on top of my brother.  Is that even him? I don’t even recognize him.  Squish. Squish Squish.  The words ‘son of a bitch’ and ‘he gave you everything’ come out of my mouth, but I’m not speaking them. I black out again, this time when I awake I’m on the ally floor, a brick with skin and blood on it is lying next to my face, and my brother is gone.

It’s 5 a.m. at Milly’s and my heart races, my body shakes, I can hardly hold the burgers and fries down.  Jamison will be here any minute.  As soon as all the swelling went down Jamison was out of the house. He drifted around most of Southern California and ended up in Vegas.  Fixing up cars was his main source of income.  Usually he would fix up someone’s ride in exchange for food or a place to stay.  After a while he managed to open up his own shop. We never really spoke about what happened in the alley that night, I don’t think either of us really knew why I did what I did, so we just left it at that.   I’m running all this through my head when in he walks.  I try to speak, to yell out to him but only a squeak comes out.  Doesn’t matter.  He

sees me anyhow.  He sits down at the table and looks directly at me with our father’s eyes, a large scar just above the left one, a little souvenir from the alley fight. We just stare at each other for a while; there’s so much I wanna say that won’t come out. ‘I’m sorry for turning your face into ground beef’ or ‘I’m sorry for keeping the only piece of our father from you.’ but the only thing that comes out is “Did you bring your gloves?”  He breaks the stare and looks down, giving just a slight nod. “All right then. Come with me.”  We head outside and hop into the El Dorado.  I don’t know where I’m going. 

“This looks like shit, y’know,” Jamison comments about the car. 

“I know.  I never really cared to keep it fixed up.”

 “Figures.”  I look to the east and see that the dark sky has just a tint of blue to it, sunrise won’t be long now.  After about twenty minutes I pull over and pop the trunk.  I reach in a grab my gloves, which I bring with me everywhere but haven’t used in years, just like the guitar.  I pull of my jacket and shirt and I see Jamison do the same.

 When we’re ready I tell him.  “Winner gets the car.” He comes at me, I get ready for his right hook but it’s not there.  Instead I’m hit by the left, he’s talking as he’s hitting.

 “Do you really think that’s what this is about? The car?”  I throw a few punches back and ponder on it.  Isn’t that what it has always been about? The car he built with our father and I wouldn’t let him have.  I take the bait.

 “Then what is it? Why don’t we get along?”   Block. Jab. Block again. 

“Maybe because the last time we did this I needed thirty-six stitches put in my face, or maybe because after all the work we did together, all he ever did was talk about you and how

proud you made him with your guitar playing.” All I’m doing now is blocking; trying to hold back the onslaught that will ensue if my defenses are broken “Or maybe, Tucker, just maybe it’s because we’re brothers and we’re not supposed to get along. We’re just supposed to love each other.”  This last comment hits me harder than any punch.  Was it really that simple?  Do we fight because we’re brothers and not in spite of it? I drop my defenses for a second and that’s all he needs to get in one good blow.  I’m on the ground and the fight is over.  Jamison has won.  While I’m down he rips his gloves off, reaches into my pants pocket and takes the keys.  “Or maybe it is about the car.”  He takes off like a bat out of hell, leaving me shirtless with only my boxing gloves.  I stand up watching him head off to the Nevada border.  After about a hundred feet he stops and throws something on the side of the road.   I already know what it is.  My guitar case.  I jog to the case and by the time I get to it he’s long gone.  Gone with my father’s car, gone with all my burdens and demons.  I look out to where he had been not five minutes ago and I smile.  Jamison, my brother.  I may not like him but I love him.  I begin to walk back towards home trying to hitch a ride.  As I do I see the sun coming up over the desert.  It’s going to be a beautiful day.