The water begins to darken, taking on a red hue. Shit, did I cut myself? I pull my hands up out of the water and step back from the sink. I look down at my hands and turn them every which way, suds sliding down off my arms and onto the black non-slip mat at my feet. No blood. The water is now a dark red. Maybe some of the fat that I scrubbed off the pans dissolved into the water.
“You look like you’re seeing ghosts,” Ric says. My eyes snap up from the sink. I don’t know when he got up next to me, but he’s eyeing my hands alongside me on my right. Jasmine is still scrubbing diligently at the other sink to my left. The two of them got into a kind of fling right after Ric was hired. I don’t know what terms they ended on, just that Ric stopped talking about her all of a sudden a couple of months ago. There’s tension in the air, but it seems mostly focused on me.
“I think I was,” I reply, “just a long night, I guess.”
“Yeah,” he says, “I remember my first double. Think you’ll make it, little guy?” His eyebrow is cocked. He knows that I know that he’s never worked a double in his life. He also knows that I know that the only reason he still has this job at Mo’s is because I cover for his ass when he doesn’t show up. But he also knows that I know that he’s six inches taller than me, so if I fire off at him, it’ll look like I have Little Man Syndrome. Sometimes I wish we weren’t related; we certainly don’t look like it, but then who would I have to get annoyed at? I look back at the sink–the water looks perfectly normal–a film of suds and nubbins of ground beef on top beginning to settle and cloud the pans at the bottom. There is no sign of red left in it at all. My eyes are playing tricks on me. “Alright, fuck off,” I say, “I’ll finish washing these, then we can close up, I’ll make it. Do you still need a ride by the way? Or did you get your Charger back from the impound?” I ask. His cocked eyebrow drops down, and the corners of his mouth twist into a small frown. Double Super bubble gum… Super bubble gum. Super yellow mello yelloooo mellooooooo yello meloo… Super bubble gum.
“Yeah, I still need a ride,” he says. I pull the drain on the sink and reach in to pull the pans out. He turns around and walks away, mumbling something that I can’t quite make out over the sound of the water draining.
“Why is his car impounded?” Jasmine asks. Her voice is soft but perceptible, unlike Ric’s mumbles.
“Guy doesn’t know how to pay parking tickets, I guess. Got towed about a week and a half ago,” I reply.
“Oh, I could’ve guessed that,” she says, “but I was hoping there’d be a better story.”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” I say.
“Don’t worry. I can only be disappointed in Ric,” she says. Maybe they aren’t on such good terms, then. The last of the water swirls around the drain, leaving only sopping wet bits of ground beef and pans in its wake. I pull the pans out of the sink and turn around to stick them in the dishwasher. Jasmine comes up beside me and sticks the Cambros she was rinsing on the rack below the pans. “Alright, I think that’s the last of it,” she says.
“Wonderful, wonderful,” I say. I pull the large lever, and the washer’s cover drops down over the dishes. “Well, I hope we cleaned everything to the morning shift’s standards.”
“Hard to tell. I don’t think the morning shift even knows what their standards are,” she replies.
“Yeah, no kidding,” I say, “you can head up front with the rest of them. I just need to grab my things from the way back. I’ll kill the lights while I’m back there.”
“Okay,” she says, “by the way, is today your birthday?” I look at the clock, ‘12:30’. Shit, I thought I would be able to slip under the radar until the morning at least.
“Yeah, technically it is now, I guess,” I say.
“Well, happy birthday. It’s your Twenty-Second, right?” She asks.
“Sure is,” I answer.
“I’ll see you up front. Don’t worry, I won’t make them sing for you,” she says. That’s exactly what someone about to make people sing for me would say. But Jasmine isn’t one to make a scene like that, so I partially trust her. She turns away, and I walk back through dry storage. I get to the trash gondola and grab my pack of Camel Blues off the top of the boxes I broke down before doing the dishes. I reach toward the mass of light switches on the panel to the right of the gondola and sweep outstretched arm down, turning off all the lights in one swift motion. I walk back to the front. I push through the double doors and step out into the dining area. Moonlight is seeping through the windows, and I can make out the closing crew standing by the front door.
“He-hey, the man we’ve all been waiting for,” Ric calls out. I tense up, fearing for the worst– that they’ll all break into song. I walk closer and can make out Ric’s shit-eating grin.
“We’re all set,” I say. Those were the words everyone was waiting to hear. We all file out the door, and I lock it behind us. Ric and I walk to my Impala.
“Hey, Mark,” Ric says. Oh boy, here comes some shit. I look at him over the top of the car before opening my door and sliding into the driver’s seat. He opens his door and ducks down into the passenger seat. “Listen, I know it’s late, and it’s technically your big day now–”
“How the hell do you know when my ‘big day’ is?” I ask.
“You’re my cousin, it’s my job to know these things,” he says. Yeah, right. I don’t think Ric even knows what color my hair is. Jasmine must’ve told him, I guess. “Anyway,” he continues, “do you think you could drop me off at John-o’s place before I come back to the pad for the night?”
“Christ. You wanna get shitfaced this late? How are you even gonna get back?” I ask. Ric never thinks things through. Don’t know how my auntie put up with all his antics before she had him move in with me. I look back and put my hand against the back of his headrest. “I’m not picking your sorry ass up, that’s for sure,” I say. I pull out of my space and start the drive to John-o’s.
“Aw, hell, John-o don’t even live that far from us. Five-minute drive, tops,” he says.
“Too bad you don’t have a car then,” I say.
“Bro, why you busting my balls? You think you’re king of the world ‘cause you made it another year?” He asks.
“I’ll take you there, but you’re finding your own way home. You'd better wake up for your shift tomorrow,” I say. He’s usually able to convince me, but I’m dead tired and all my brain power is focused on the road now.
“Fine,” he says, “Google says it’s only a fifteen-minute walk.”
I drop him off outside John-o’s and drive back to my apartment complex. He wasn’t lying; it only takes me four-and-a-half minutes to get back. I park and walk to the door of my building. I punch the code into the scuffed-to-hell keypad, and I hear the lock click open. I push through the door and gently close it behind me. Mr. Kravitz lives on the first floor, and he always gives me hell the next morning if he hears me past ten o'clock at night. I go up three flights of stairs and unlock the door to my apartment. I step inside and make sure to lock only the handle, not the deadbolt, so Ric can get in without waking me up later. I strip down to my boxers in the living room, throwing my work clothes on the couch, and trudge to my bedroom. I hover over my bed and then let myself flop down onto it, my face hitting the pillow.
BANG BANG BANG
I jolt up in bed.
BANG BANG BANG
“Shit, man, who is it?” I cry out. Guess they want to get me out of bed. I look at my clock: 3:00 AM. Hope they know what kind of beast they’re about to deal with. It better not be fuckin’ Kravitz.
BANG BANG BANG
Alright, forget what kind of beast I am. I don’t even know who to thank for rousing me. I tumble out of bed. I get to the door, clad in only my boxers, and line my eye up with the peephole. Jesus, it’s Ric, he must’ve forgotten his keys.
“Well, well– found a way to piss me off without me even having to drive,” I shout through the door.
“C’mon, man, open up,” he fires back hoarsely. Something about the urgency in his response compels me to drop the act and unlock the handle. Immediately, the door swings back toward me. I tumble backwards, my reflexes awake enough to save me, but not enough to do so confidently, and take a few wobbly steps to regain my balance. I look up at my cousin. My eyes immediately dart to his left arm and the unnaturally bright blood that entirely coated his hand up to the middle of his forearm. The door thwaps against the wall as Ric’s wiry frame slips past me. He runs his left hand along the wall near the light switch. After a few seconds of searching for it, he gives up.
“Uh, hey, man,” I say, at a loss for words, “what did you do?” I ask. I flip the light on, revealing the blood coating the wall surrounding it.
“Fuck, shit,” he pants out. He takes five steps, stops, and turns to the right. He’s getting blood all over the area rug.“Fuck, man, why didn’t you let me in?” I try to hang onto each word as he slowly croaks them out. He starts to pace the floor, stumbling every few steps and putting his hands against the wall to regain balance. He looks solemn and unnaturally quick.
“How long have you been knocking for?” I ask. The man must’ve beaten his knuckles bloody.
“I been out there for hours,” still pacing in double time.
“Man, you gotta knock louder then, but what did you do, bro?” He’s moving quickly, but it seems like words aren’t coming to him at the same rate. His shirt is tattered. He has blood, bruises, and dirt covering his body. He’s missing a shoe.
“Well, shit, you wouldn’t let me in, so I had to punch through the window,” he fires these words at me all in one moment.
“Nah, not for real,” I say. The buckshot of sounds and meanings slam against the side of my head, “What did you really do to your hand?”
“I just told you. Fuck, shit, why didn’t you let me in, man?” He limply points his right index finger, which is slightly less coated with blood than the other digits on his hand, in my general direction. I turn around and follow the invisible line of where he could be pointing with my eyes because surely he’s not accusing me of anything while he’s in that kind of shape. I decide to go and investigate the building.
The first two floors look fine. I go down the last flight of stairs and see the window entirely smashed next to the front door of the building, with blood-covered shards of glass on the floor below it. Of course, everyone does that when they can’t get into their apartment, just smash the building’s window and go from there. I race up the stairs, taking two steps a stride. I walk through my doorway and, yes, Ric–looking like a crazed animal–is still standing there getting blood all over my crib. “Dude. What is wrong with you? We gotta get you cleaned up.”
“What do you mean, man? What did I do? Fuck, shit. What did I do?” He asks. I start to push him toward the bathroom.
“You punched through the window and now blood is pouring out from your knuckles, man,” I say. I flip on the bathroom light and try to help him into the shower.
“What do you even mean? It’s fine, I’ll clean it up. I got it. Chill. What did I do?” He asks again. He resists my attempts to get him into the shower. I reach toward the sink and twist the knob for cold water.
“Man, at least start running your hands under the water, that’s a start,” I say, pointing at the sink.
“Chill, chill,” he says, using his one-word protest yet again. He’s getting blood all over the ceramic tile floor. “Chill, guy, I’ll clean it up.”
“You sound and look crazy right now. Focus up. You gotta clean yourself up first, man.” I’m beyond tired of his antics.
“Bro, what does that even mean?” he asks. His eyes are glazed over, and it seems like my words aren’t reaching him.
“It means start washing your hands so I can patch you up,” I say, trying to keep my words simple.
“No, bro, I’ll clean it up. Chill, chill,” he says and lays a hand on my shoulder.
“Bro, get your hand off me and put it under the water before I get mad, seriously,” I say and shrug his hand off my shoulder, a full bloody handprint left behind on my bare skin.
“Bro, why would you get mad. What did I even do?” he asks. He finally sticks his hands under the water, and as soon as he does, it looks like our sink can perform the miracle of turning water into wine. Immediately, the sink is coated in red.
“Dude, you smashed the window,” I answer once again.
“Whatever, man. What did I do?” he asks again, eyes locked onto the sink.
“Alright, fuck off,” I say. I rush into the living room, trying to ignore the blood spatters strewn throughout the apartment. I grab my work pants off the couch and pull my phone out of the right pocket. I don’t know who to call–The cops will only cause trouble, my auntie is about four hundred miles away from us, and there’s no doubt that none of Ric’s friends from this evening are sober enough to be any help–behind me, I hear Ric’s clumsy, quick steps. I turn around and see him go into my bedroom. “Hey, man, don’t go in there, you’re still bleeding everywhere,” I say. I start scrolling through my contacts.
“Stop overreacting,” he says. Oh, man, that does it. He’s still stumbling around my room. I have to call in the big guns. I tap on my aunt’s contact. My thumb hovers over the call button. She probably would expect something like this from him anyway. I hear tumbling from my room and look up from my phone. I walk from the living room to my doorway. He’s sprawled out face down in the middle of the floor, between the bed and the desk, blood spattered around him. It almost looks like he’s a performance artist, one who just got done splattering paint around to complete his masterpiece. Even if my Aunt cared, she wouldn’t be able to get here to help me for a while. Besides, he’s only a little banged up, and one broken window is relatively insignificant compared to some other crazy shit he could’ve gotten up to.
“Alright, time to get up,” I say, “looks like it’s just gonna be you and me figuring this out again.” He responds with a long, labored groan. I approach him slowly, put my phone on the desk, and crouch down to his left. “Hey, listen,” I say, “I’m not upset with you, but I need to get you patched and cleaned up. That way, I know you’re good to get some rest while I work on cleaning up the glass downstairs.”
“It’s really not a big deal, what did I even do, man?” he asks, my gentler approach not changing anything at all. I reach down and grip his right shoulder. I tug at him, hoping to flip him over. “Stop hassling me, guy,” he says. There’s irritation in his voice. Seems a little unfair, but at least he’s not asking what he did again.
“I’m gonna hassle you ‘til you’re thinking straight, man,” I say. Maybe pestering him is the key. I tug on him some more. Finally, he relents and starts to push himself off the ground. I stand up with him. “Okay, here we go, back to the bathroom,” I say, placing my hand against his back and trying to guide him once more.
“I said stop hassling me,” he says, retreating from my hand. He turns to face me and then lunges, pushing me back with both of his hands. I stumble backwards and hit the wall behind me. The impact rattles my room. Even though it’s already happened, I find it impossible to believe he pushed me. I try to gather myself.
“Alright, fine,” I say, “then get the fuck out of my apartment.” My attempt at collecting myself was unsuccessful. I’m done. I told him going over there was a bad idea in the first place. He can keep bleeding. Let’s see how long he can stumble around before someone calls the police and he finds out what hassling really feels like.
“The fuck you mean, ‘your’ apartment?” he asks. “This is my pad,” he says. I lunge at him, planting my hands against his tattered work shirt to shove him with all of the force available to me. His eyes widen, and he takes a few steps backward, trying to gather himself. Then he entirely falls on his ass, skidding against the hardwood floor.
“Get. Out,” I say. The words boom out of me, but they sound entirely unlike myself. I don’t remember much of my father, but I do remember the way he’d start to shout when he was about to ‘teach me a lesson’ after coming back extra late from work. Look at me now, teaching my cousin, the drunkard, a lesson of my own. Damn it all to hell, he’s too plastered to understand what he’s doing. He’s gotten blackout like this enough times for me to know that. I know I’m better than this. Ric stands up, his eyes still wide.
“Whatever, man,” he says. His fists are all balled up. I ready myself for another attack. He swivels and, within just a moment, he’s at the front door. I trail after him. He slips out and slams the door behind him before I make it even halfway into the living room. There’s part of me that wants to go after him, the rest of me is just filled with rage. Good riddance. He can come back when he’s thinking straight. I’m standing in the middle of the living room, and blood is everywhere. I wish I had shady friends, the kind that knew how to get blood out of carpet. I walk to the kitchen and search the cupboards for my big popcorn bowl, my hands shaking. The adrenaline is clouding my thoughts, but I find it and place it under the sink. I turn on the hot water. What else can I use?
BANG BANG BANG
The sound of the rapping against the door startles me slightly, not as much as it could. I knew it wouldn’t be long until he sobered up. I turn the tap off and walk to the door.
“Alright, alright,” I say, “I’ll let you back in.” I unlock the door’s handle. I brace for it to swing back at me. It doesn’t. Ric’s learned the virtue of patience. I open the door myself. John-o is standing there with some muscled bald guy I don’t recognize. John-o has never come to our apartment before. Ric always just goes to his place.
“Where’s Ric?” John-o asks.
“What do you care? You’re the one who got him drunk and sent him away,” I reply.
“ He didn’t have a drop to drink with me. Where’s he at?” John-o asks again.
“Bullshit. You just missed him,” I answer.
“Cut the shit, Mark, I know he’s in there. There’s blood trailing all the way up here,” he fires back.
“What, you want to check on him?” I ask.
“Stop messing around. This is the last time I’m gonna ask you. Where is he?” he asks.
“I’ll give you my final answer: he’s not here. How do you know it’s his blood and not mine?” I ask.
“We can tell the two of you apart, genius. We’d remember if it was you we beat bloody,” he says.
“Johnny, what the hell are you talking about? Is this some kind of joke?” I ask.
“Shit, do you see me laughing? There’s nothing funny about the money your cousin owes me,” he says, “Either you bring him out or we’re coming in.”
“You’re talking crazy, Johnny. He’s not here. Good luck finding him,” I say. I step back to shut the door. The big bald guy steps forward and puts his hand against it, pinning it to the wall of the entryway.
“Okay, you want us to come in then, that’s fine by me,” John-o says. He tries to step through the doorway, but I move forward to block his path. I plant my feet and then feel something really fucking hard slam across the left side of my face. I’m not standing in his way anymore. I’m on my back, lying across the floor of the entryway. In my peripheral vision, I see John-o swing his leg back. An excruciating blow slams against my ribs–I hear a snapping sound from within me. I gasp, my eyes widening but not seeing anything. “Well, guess now we can remember when we beat you bloody, Marky,” he says. My vision is blurry, but I watch him step over me. I gasp for breath again. I hear someone chuckle, I think the bald guy.
“What the hell is going on up there?” I hear a voice call out distantly. I struggle to lift my head, but manage to see John-o and the bald guy running out of my bedroom. They make it through the apartment in an instant. The bald guy takes a big bound over me, and John-o plants a foot on my stomach to step over me. I close my eyes. I hear their footsteps banging down each stair.“Who the hell are you people? You having a goddamn wrestling match up there?” the voice calls out again, closer this time. “Do you boys live here?” the voice asks, closer still, “I’ll find you if you do!” I hear footsteps ascending the stairs. Shit, they’re gonna finish the job. I strain to reach for the door.
“Oh God, what the hell happened here?” the voice asks, coming from right next to me. I look over. My vision is blurry, but I can see silver hair on the top of the man’s head. “Oh, God, Mark. Are you okay, son?” he asks. Dad, is that you? No, it can’t be. I take a deep breath.
“K-kravitz, that you?” I ask.
“Yes,” he answers, “you’re gonna be okay. I already called the authorities.”
“Okay,” I say. There’s more to be said, but I’m out of breath. I wheeze for some more air. I try to speak, but nothing comes out. I slide my hand off the door.
“Just lie there, bub, you don’t need to do anything,” he says.
“K-kravitz,” I say, managing to get another word out.
“I’m here,” he says.
“I’m–” I gasp for air, “I’m sorry about all the noise.”
I open my eyes. Stark whiteness fills my vision. I blink it away, and my eyes begin to refocus. I’m in bed. Oh, shit, the bed! My money! They couldn’t have found my money. I’ve got a few grand tucked up under my bed frame. They weren’t in the apartment for long enough, surely. I try to sit up, but the sharp pain in my side and neck stops me. I look around. I’m in bed, but not my bed. The walls and bed are both entirely white. I hear footsteps approaching. I can make out the silver hair. Kravitz, shit.
“Mark, you up?” Mr. Kravitz asks.
“Yeah, listen, it won’t happen again, promise,” I answer. My voice comes out weak, but I don’t struggle for air.
“Well, for your sake, I hope so. Don’t make promises you can’t keep, though, bub,” he says.
“Alright then,” I say. I blink twice, my eyes adjusting more, “Am I in the hospital?”
“Yes, guess they knocked you on the head pretty good,” he says, “the nurses told me that there’s no brain damage or broken bones on you, bub.” He scratches the white stubble on his chin.
“Okay,” I say, “why are you here then?”
“Well, EMS called your emergency contacts. The first guy didn’t pick up the phone– they still haven’t been able to reach him. Then they went to the next name on the list, and she said that there was a long drive between the two of you,” he replies, “So I asked her if I could ride along with you.” Great, my auntie is letting strange men follow me into the hospital.
“Thanks,” I say, “how long has it been?”
“Oh, about eight hours since they brought you here,” he replies. Okay, good. I wasn’t in a coma for months. “They told me once you felt ready, they could give you some painkillers, and I could take you back home.”
“Oh,” I say, “that’s nice.” I close my eyes and try to sense how bad the pain is now. My head doesn’t feel awful, but it doesn’t feel good either. My side aches, so I move my hand and press on it. God Almighty, that burns. I clench my teeth, and my exhale comes out as a hiss. It could be worse. I sit up in bed.
“Okay, you want to get out of here?” I ask him.
“Sure, bub, if you’re ready,” he replies
He hands me a brand-new change of clothes. A nurse comes in and checks my vitals. She leaves and comes back with a tiny bottle of pills for me. Then a doctor comes in and tells me that I’m free to go, but that I should just take it easy for the next few days. Mr. Kravitz thanks them for taking good care of me. Then he and I walk out to his car. He drives a vintage Ford Falcon and tells me so. I don’t think of asking the year. I’m ready to get back to my place and see if my money is still there. The sun is starting to set. We get in his Falcon and he tunes the radio to the oldies station. He pulls out and starts driving back to the apartment complex.
“Hey, bub,” he says, “smoking is a nasty habit, but I figured you might want one right about now. I grabbed you a pack of Camels from the corner store.” He pulls the pack of still-wrapped cigarettes out of his shirt pocket.
“How’d you know my brand?” I ask. He gives me a quick knowing glance from the corner of his eye and shrugs. He passes the pack to me.
“Lucky guess,” he says. I inspect the label, ‘Camel Blue,’ it reads. Lucky guess, my ass. I rip the plastic off the pack and crank my window down. “Lighter is in the cup holder,” he says. I look down and, sure enough, a silver Zippo is waiting for me. I stick the cigarette in my mouth and cup my hand to protect the flame. I set the lighter back in the cup holder. When I look up, a Dodge Charger drives past. Looks like Ric’s car. I hope he’s okay. I hope he made it to work this morning. I take slow, gentle drags on my cigarette. We pull back into the apartment complex’s parking lot. He stops the engine.
“By the way, bub,” he says, “happy twenty-second birthday. They told me at the hospital. You'd better not make noise until you’re at least twenty-three. You’ve made enough for this year.” He gives me half a smile.
“Thanks, Mr. Kravitz. I’ll try not to,” I say. We get out of the car and walk to the front door of the building. A blue tarp is covering the busted window. I punch the code into the keypad and go through the door. “See you later,” I say. He nods, and I head up the stairs.
I get to my apartment. The door is still unlocked. I step through, and it sure as hell looks like a crime scene. I approach my bedroom. I slowly ease myself onto the floor next to my bed. I reach under the frame where I’ve been tucking away money, just in case. I don’t feel anything but the frame. I slide my hand all around the frame, and I can feel the tape that used to hold the money in place. When I pull my hand away, dried blood has flaked onto it. I look under the bed, and there are droplets of dried blood all over the ground. I stand up and walk to Ric’s bedroom to find that it has been emptied. Guess that means he didn’t show up for work after all.