ASHES

But I’ll be brave I’ll be brave I’ll be brave

When the time it comes around I’ll be brave yeah I’ll be brave

Just let me go now

Let me go now

Brian Joseph Burton, John Baldwin Gourley

The moon was full and poured yellow light through a small window in the upper corner of the grey office that connected him to the outside world. He sat, soaked in sadness, on borrowed time from pending madness. As Kennedy typed away in response to an e-mail for work, he glanced at the clock in the screen’s corner that read 8:01 PM. He was always aware of the possibility that any hour could be his last, but ignorant that this time it would be. He pushed out of his thousand-dollar, graphite-framed, lumbar-padded, carbon-classic chair and headed to the bathroom.

His law firm was as old and awkward as the partners who had come to define it. It had originally been five separate buildings raised at the turn of the 20th century that were desperately thrust together over time, resulting in a maze of inadvertently riot-proof hallways and ramps where stairs should have been. The ghosts of litigation past were disoriented and had trouble keeping themselves to one floor when they floated around after hours. The pictures hanging on the walls ranged from vintage Abe Lincoln to overhead shots of the city and seemed to belong to a miscellaneous collection won at a storage auction.

As he carefully navigated the step up that led into the bathroom and positioned himself at one of the urinals, blood rushed to his head. More and more, and particularly in the recesses of the empty commercial building late at night, he felt like he was holding onto consciousness by a thread; like the right push of cosmic force could separate him from reality, sending him spiraling into darkness and the great unknown. His character was strong, but his head was loose.

When he researched the possible causes of this near total disconnection, he was informed that he might be stressed. Stress was the buzzword that early 21st century USA offered for any inexplicable bad feeling. Ridding yourself of stress, living a stress-free existence, was the key to a long life of complete contentment. American society had evolved from addressing the problem with small squishy handheld balls to exercises, diets, classes, and fulltime professional managers. But Kennedy didn’t feel stressed, even if his dad was dead and he hadn’t talked to his mother in months, because he didn’t really feel anything at all. How strange—too feel nothing, and still get credit for being alive.

“You’re the asshole. You acted like a jackass.” He pointed at her and couldn’t help smirking as he continued, “you’re the turd in the punch bowl.” Humor was a defense mechanism that had gotten him through a lot of years and a lot of pain. But these minor injections of happiness were no longer helping him process.

She started sobbing. “How could you say that? I’m your mother. You’re supposed to take care of me. I spent so much time with you as baby. We were going to be rich and famous.”[1]

“You’d be wise to let go of that well-forgotten dream.”[2] He assumed a tone of condescension. “I’m saying what I’m saying because it’s the truth, and it’s not like it’s easy for me to say. It’s not like I want to make my mother cry. But what choice have you given me?” He stood next to his open car door in the driveway behind her house. It was Thanksgiving.

“What did I do to you? I love you, I’ve always loved you.”

She reached out her trembling hands, hoping that Kennedy would receive them.

When the hands went unmet she became more aggressive, “I made you. You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for me. I brought you into this world, and I can take you out of it.”

“This isn’t about me and you. I didn’t do anything wrong. All I’m saying is that I don’t want to be around you anymore. I’m not the first person to say it. You alienate people. You treat people like shit.” He shrugged his shoulders and shook his head as if all present parties knew this to be a fact.

“I’ve never been nasty to you.”

“Ha! Come on. You know how you get when you drink. You can be revolting with that sharp tongue. Trying to get off on hurting people. Feeling high standing on people’s shoulders, on their faces. And the worst part is that you treat the people who break their backs for you the worst of all. It’s as though their devotion diminishes what they mean to you.”

“You’re siding with Allen? Against your mother. He’s not even your father.” Her face contorted, and she spit a little. “That fat fu—”

“—Stop! You don’t get it. You can’t be trusted. If you can’t prove to be a decent human being, which starts with the goddamn golden rule and showing respect—”

“—Fuck you. Fuck him!” She threw out both of her middle fingers, the nails on which appeared to have recently been treated by some hard-working Vietnamese woman at the city mall who was forced to listen to Jean-Marie’s bitching.

“Respect! Respect for someone who provides you with the kind of support that I refuse to, and Sinatra can’t.”

To her, this was all about picking sides. It didn’t need to be more complicated than that. She hated people who thought too much.

He knew how she felt. In that instant she struck him as an appropriate representative of almost all mankind. “Until you can show respect, and mean it, we’ve got nothing to talk about. And, for the record, I don’t think you’re such a bad person when you’re not drinking. Sober, you can at least you can keep your evil to yourself and pretend to be a functioning member of society.”

“What about your drinking?”

He put his travel bag on the passenger’s side seat and turned his back to her briefly. “I’m a functioning adult. You get so fucking sloshed you slam a cheesecake, which you spent 5 hours and $40 you didn’t have on, right into the side of the refrigerator and forget that it happened. You’re the villain in this story.”

Her anger turned back to self-pity. “No, I’m not. You are.”[3]

“Listen, it comes down to the fact that I can’t trust you when you’re not sober. 30 years ago, 30 years less of booze and drugs, and you could still go so out of your mind that you would stab someone or allow their skin to burn off in your driveway.[4] Now you’re falling in showers and cracking open your skull. Imagine if I had kids? You’re on a crash course headed towards death.” The night before Jean-Marie had slipped and hit her head on the shower faucet after having a few too many glasses of wine. When her kids returned home from the pre-turkey day reunion at the local bar she greeted them with a new dye job: red.

“I’m going to live until I’m 100, just like your great aunt and your great grandfather.”

“I love how you always pick those two out of the hundreds of your known dead relatives. Did they do to their bodies what you’ve done to yours? You’ve seen a lot of miles.”

“No, I’m going to live for a long time. And when I do die, I’m going to haunt you.”[5]

“You’re already haunting me.”

“You’re terrible.”

“You made me. I am who I am. And you are who you are. I don’t think either of those things are going to change anytime soon. This is how it’s always been and how it’s going to be. And unfortunately for you … for all of us … but mostly for you, you’re so fucking stubborn, I think life is going to have to break you. Rock bottom baby. That’s the only chance you have of changing.” He said it with confidence. He had closed enough doors to know he didn’t need to look back. “There’s a place where you are going that you haven’t been before.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“You’re already there. You can’t rely on your looks anymore. You can’t trade on sex. You’re poor, old, and ugly. And look,” he paused and scanned the surroundings for effect, “there’s no one left to laugh at your back now, no one standing at your door.” He finished loading the vehicle and shut the door. He rolled down the window to allow his last biting words to escape. “Yet, all of that shouldn’t matter. But it will. Because that’s what you thought life and love was for.”

They looked at each other for a few seconds and when she focused hard she could still see the face of a son who once upon a time would have given anything to be with, be near, his mother. She refused to forget those days. Stubborn. She’d heard that one before. And you know what? She was stubborn. So was he. But stubborn was strong. Stubborn had always worked. What did he know? Her son? The boy. She’d existed for twice the time he had. She wasn’t going anywhere.

He took a couple of breaths and found stability by the sink. One of the lights above him wasn’t screwed in right, and it flickered in a manner that made the place appear cheaper than it deserved. He splashed water on his face and ran his hands through his salt and pepper hair catching his reflection in the mirror. Color was draining from him. There was an outcropping of gray that had insidiously appeared in his mustache, on the right side of his chin, and in his sideburns. These gray bristles were, he knew, the advance scouts of a relentless, wintry invasion. And there would be no stopping the march of the hours, the days, the years. He looked hard at the crow’s feet growing in the corners of his eyes and the multiplying wrinkles on his ever-worried forehead. Passing 30, he accepted that these greys and lines defined the map of his design. “Are you breaking apart?” He said to the man that he once was.

He liked to work late on Mondays. It gave him a feeling of accomplishment and it fit nicely into his routine of cleansing himself of the kind of vice-filled activity sought out by a weekend warrior. He would leave the office in the next twenty minutes or so, go home, change, and then head to the gym to sweat the toxins out of his body just so he could put them in again. He wasn’t a creature of habit, but he liked this practice.

By the time he made it back to his chair, the phone on his desk was ringing. Not his work phone, but his cell phone that he always kept close, a product of having been born into his generation. It was his mother’s boyfriend Allen. Allen had known Kennedy since he was in grade school, but he became a larger part of his life a little over a decade prior. When he thought about it, Kennedy couldn’t recall how Allen met his mother, or how long that they had known each other, and he always told himself that he would ask after being reminded of this gap in information during conversations with others. He never did.

Allen was a painter and had his own relatively-successful business. The reason for his growing role in Kennedy’s life can be attributed to a case of necessity. Kennedy’s mother separated from his father when he was 5. Kennedy could recall one instance in their home in New Jersey when he and his younger brother sat in the doorway crying and asking their mother why their father had to leave. This was his earliest memory. That or when he was alone[6] in his room playing with a noisemaker. One of those old-school, heavy-duty, metal noisemakers with a thin stick-like handle that people in the 1950s must have spun around to ring in the new year. He sat slowly spinning the toy and felt an odd sensation to stick his finger in the opening on its underside. Curiosity was not a stranger to Kennedy, during this same period he stuck a Light Bright up his nose.[7] A second later, Kennedy separated himself from the mechanism that sat still on the floor. As it had done a thousand times before, the party favor, with a little help from a human counterpart, succeeded in its function. The noises generated were the screams of a child watching himself bleed. A noticeable scar on his right index finger would serve as a reminder of both his separation from, and connection with, that noisemaker.

In the distant doorway, Kennedy’s mother only responded that his father had to go. Both of Kennedy’s parents were terrible drunks because they drank a lot, were not pleasant to be around when they were drinking, and would often get abusive.[8] In Kennedy’s early years, his father would get physical with his mother when he was led to believe, and often correctly so, that she had not been entirely faithful while he was working hard to make ends meet. She was a difficult woman, and he never really figured out how to handle her. Their love bucked then broke under the strain of those wild nights.

While Allen was better equipped in his patience and forgiveness, he too would prove to have a tipping point. Allen grow up in an Irish-Catholic household with many siblings but found himself in the final chapters of his life not very close to any of them. His routine consisted of so many tenuous relationships that he forgot what it was like to love and be loved. That was until Kennedy’s mother had decided that Allen should become a more serious friend. Shortly thereafter, Kennedy’s mother and brother were moved out of their small studio apartment on the outskirts of town[9] and into a nice condominium that looked exactly like all the others on the block. The neighborhood was complete with a pool, playground, and clubhouse.

Allen liked to talk to Kennedy on at least a weekly basis. They would recap recent events, bitch to each other about work, make small talk about the weather, and part by exchanging “love yous” to signal family. Kennedy and Allen agreed that despite their lack of genetic similarities, they were alike in their need to look after Kennedy’s mother and brother. In true symbiotic fashion, Kennedy was extremely appreciative of Allen’s willingness to financially support the members of his family, and Allen was grateful to have someone to help support.

“ALLLLLLLL-len! Hey what’s happening?”

“Hey Kennedy, I’m glad that I got you.” Allen never made a game of hiding the ball in these conversations and used his tone to try and expedite delivery of bad news or to introduce an unpleasant situation. Here he was going with somber. It was a tone he applied more frequently during the standoff between Kennedy and Jean-Marie. “You at work?”

Kennedy recognized this approach and understood that Allen wanted to work through formalities as quickly as possible. “Yeah, you know how I like to stay a little later on Mondays to get ahead for the week. I shouldn’t have to stick around too much longer. What’s up?”

“Eh. I just left. Had to pay some bills. I’m assuming you still haven’t talked to your mother?”

“That would be right.” Kennedy initially cut himself off from regular interaction with his mother because of the way she had treated Allen. While Allen appreciated the support, and loved Kennedy for it, he had come to a truce with Jean-Marie. He was both flattered and hurt that the mother-son silence continued, until he was reminded of why it started in the first place.

“Well, she really let me have it the other day. Was really nasty.”

“…”

“I could tell she was drinking. I think she’s out in California with your aunt.” Kennedy’s Aunt had a beautiful home on the beach, a byproduct of divorcing someone considerably more successful than Kennedy’s father.

“…” Kennedy and Allen had been through this dance before, and Kennedy knew step 1 was to allow Allen to blow off some steam.

“It got personal, and you know I’m 62 years old now. I don’t need to deal with this stuff. All I ever do is give her things, pay for this, pay for that. Cable, the house, the car, extra spending money. And she attacks me personally, for what? My weight? The fact that I’m bald? I know I’m not the most handsome man, but Jesus, she’s no spring chicken either.”

Kennedy interjected intermittently with versions of “I’m sorry Allen,” and the occasional, “you’re absolutely right.”

“She doesn’t work, and still keeps asking for more money. And I’m an asshole for doing it. I don’t deserve it. Right? All I’ve ever done was help her. She doesn’t know what it’s like to work a full work day, and here I am, living in someone’s basement so I can pay for a house that I’m afraid to visit.”

Allen didn’t deserve it; all he had ever done was act in her best interests. For his part, Kennedy couldn’t see why Allen kept taking the abuse and would regularly encourage him to move on.[10] “No, you don’t deserve it. You’ve been so great to us, and you deserve to be happy.” He wondered whether he was a bad person for believing that his life, all their lives, might be easier without the old bag around. A short-term loss that would result in a net positive to the unit’s overall joy. Utilitarianism in action.

“It was really bad. She’s got to learn. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

Kennedy had an idea as to what would happen. His mother would sober up and give a half-hearted apology when her short-term finances hit empty. She’d be long-distance sweet for a few weeks and things would return to normal, as they always seemed to.

Both Allen and Kennedy knew that Kennedy’s mother was a woman who could sometimes be managed, rarely be reasoned with, and never be changed. She was a creature of habit. Her habits included drinking, smoking copious amounts of pot, cleaning and cooking in excess to both cover the smell of all the pot being smoked and give the appearance of productivity, and finding the necessary sunlight to keep people guessing whether she was of Caucasian descent. She liked to let excess exceed.

“Whatever you do Allen, we’re completely behind you. We love you.” Kennedy took a sentence or two off, knowing what was coming next, to escape into his head. He danced between French curls and crazy circles. This conversation that he was having, and those like it that he could have another thousand times in his life, were not registering with him anymore. If he was being honest with himself, and he always was always honest with himself,[11] he knew more than anything he wanted to feel the bits of the color that had been leaking from him so much recently. Scraps and shreds of thought were simply swarming in his brain, but he could not catch at one, he could not rest on one, in spite of all his efforts.

Allen sighed. “I love you guys too. And I don’t want to leave her out in the cold. Speaking of cold, I’ve got to go, the roads are terrible. I’ll call you tomorrow. We can come up with a plan.” Allen loved plans.

“Thanks, Allen. Take care, be safe, I love ya.”

“Love you too, g’night.”

Kennedy put the phone down and picked up where he left off in his head. Why didn’t he care anymore? Weren’t these important discussions that the fabric of his family relied upon? Wasn’t he equally responsible for the content of the conversation? If asked about his thoughts, Kennedy would say that they were more confused than the average person’s and think that they were more complicated. It dawned on him then that the most interesting conversations were authentic with a motive. What was his?

Kennedy finished typing his e-mail, the next push in his never-ending role to keep the ball moving forward in foreclosure litigation. All the cases were the same. The bank, with the backing and blessing of the government, had overplayed its hand in lending money to anyone with a pulse (and even some without) when things were good. People had no problem accepting cash. “Housing values will never decline.” The market came crashing down. Everyone lost something,[12] but for some reason it was particularly difficult for the American homeowner to let go of “her” house. A preposterous statement for multiple reasons, but most of all for the fact that foreclosed-on “homeowner” rarely had any equity in her home post the bubble bursting. Kennedy blamed the government for telling everyone they could and should own a home. Home ownership is a foreign concept in many other parts of the world, and Kennedy recognized how inherently American a white picket fence was, especially as he tried to rip the stakes out of backyards. It was as though a house was the borrower’s legacy. Not everlasting, but a structure that would outlive the purchaser and upon which that individual could rely to encapsulate the accomplishments of a lifetime; a promise of something for the next generation to build on; walls to contain the history of a family. It was simple, but so are most people.

While Kennedy coordinated with an oversized and undermanned institution to put together the state/federal-required proof for foreclosure, the borrower and their seedy attorneys pulled out every trick in the book to poke holes and delay the inevitable. Still, it was interesting work, and it afforded him the opportunity to enjoy the other aspects of his life. More than anything else it was considerably better than his last job.

He spent the next ten minutes on his favorite websites making sure there was no breaking news, both generally and within his social circles, since he last reviewed headlines a few hours prior. Next, he locked his computer, put on his suit jacket and winter pea coat, checked his pockets for all the essentials (phone, keys, wallet), and flipped off the light in satisfaction of another productive Monday.

Kennedy only lived a few blocks from work. After a year of making treacherous hour-long commutes to his investment banking office in downtown Cleveland, he had decided that he would like that time, money, and energy back. Thus, he found an apartment close to his new job and never had to deal with a “point and go”[13] again.

Kennedy rarely concerned himself with his safety during his brief walk to and from work. The city was largely crime-free in that area, even if it was deserted after 7 and always on weekends. And Kennedy was extremely rational. He told himself and anyone who would listen that it didn’t make much sense to be concerned with things like murders. The chance of being murdered or raped or having some other similar tragedy occur was considerably less likely than dying in the commute to work,[14] and no one is ever concerned about the latter as evidenced by most people’s egregious lack of attention to the road. Moreover, deaths that are the result of a deliberate and fixed resolve are unescapable; anyone who disregards his own life can affect them. “We are all numbers,” he would say, “these unfortunate events occur, seemingly at random. You can do your best to put yourself in a position where your chance of hitting this bizarro-lottery is minimized, but it can never be absolute. One must walk through life hoping not to be affected in a similar way that one hopes not to get cancer. It does no good to waste your valuable minutes upset about those things you cannot control.”

He last stated this position during a conversation he had with a friend about a horrific murder in India. It involved an American couple that had traveled abroad. He couldn’t recall whether the trip was for business or pleasure, but personally he would not be caught dead in a third world country during his time off.[15] The couple was utilizing public transportation and boarded the wrong bus. Shortly after boarding, a few men approached the couple and informed them of their mistake. The male tourist apologized and stated that they would exit immediately. He didn’t understand that there was only one way he would be leaving. The natives began beating the man, more aggressively as he fought back, until he was bloodied and on the floor. Unable to move, he witnessed as the men began grabbing and hitting his fiancé before they disrobed her. She had a look of childish terror in her face, looking as little ones do when they begin to be frightened of something, looking intently and uneasily at what frightens them, shrinking back and holding out their little hands to the point of crying. Her terror infected them. The lead aggressor stared at her with a hungry smile. Despite varying pleas for help and mercy, all passengers, including the imprisoned male, watched as the savages had their way with the woman before substituting a large metal shaft for their own. It did not take long for the oversized mortar to pulverize the insides of the woman. The man would “survive” the incident.

Human beings can be awfully cruel to one another.

It was cold, and Kennedy hurried to cross the empty parking lots and move through the alleyways. He liked the city at night. He felt emotionally vulnerable on the walks home, a side effect of the long hours, and he allowed himself to think of his father. He passed under a large and lighted advertisement for the latest hand-held gizmo that allowed you to unleash your one-of-a-kind artistic talents. A short distance away a cadre of malnourished vagrants took notice of the clacking of his leather dress shoes against the hard concrete. Kennedy stopped to tie his laces when he heard them fast approaching.

Kennedy stood up. He was backing away as he asked, “Can I help you?” He noticed something off about the gang.

As part of his vigorous attempts to experience as much of life as possible, Kennedy had tried a variety of recreational drugs including, but not limited to: alcohol, pot, mushrooms, LSD, ecstasy/MDMA, salvia, cocaine, and some prescription pills. He had researched each before consuming and determined that these were “safe” to do; some once or twice, some often. For the most part, he was right. In part out of fear of addiction, in part out of fear that he might overdo it on the first use, his rational side prevented him from trying the others. He knew that while children’s appetites are malleable, those of adults are not. He was a firm proponent of the belief that everything, including drugs, is fine in moderation, unless the drug belonged in a class where moderation was not an option.

Recently, he had read that “kids” were experimenting with S.A.S. (synthesized alkaloid stimulant), a chemical cocktail that was ingested in a similar manner as crack cocaine and provided a similar jolt of energy and pleasure. However, the jolt was more of a lightning strike and it was accompanied by a later acting upper that helped the high last longer but also sometimes (read often) sparked aggressive behavior. Outside of causing cranial decay, the drug was particularly dangerous because of its affordability, the longevity of its effects, and its propensity to make its user feel like a bad-tempered superhero during the second half of the high. If humans all boil at different degrees, S.A.S. was fire in a pill.

Kennedy didn’t like reading or listening to the news, especially that which oozed from major news sources. He felt that the agendas of the reporters and those who paid their salaries outweighed the benefits of the few facts that were often concealed in their coverage. It also served as a constant reminder that people get down on a thing when they don’t know anything about it but approve of known vices when they do it themselves.

He still received his fair share of popular information from his secretary, administrative assistant rather, during their daily small talk. He was just informed that groups of S.A.S. users were causing issues for the local police by roaming the streets, looking for trouble, and even fighting with each other when no one was around, not unlike packs of wild dogs. He figured that her sources had merely chosen the next substance to vilify in the growingly desperate war on drugs. The truth spoke to him.

“Yeah you can help us,” said a man with missing teeth and dyed gums, “but I think we would rather help ourselves.” Another man behind him cackled, as the group slowly approached.

Kennedy knew he was in trouble. The gang was now close enough that he could smell them. Could he reason with them? They were somewhat well dressed for drug addicts and the gun that one was holding indicated that they were probably too rich for the streets. He made the initial offer. “Listen, you guys can have everything. My phone, my cash, you can even have my wallet, although it would be great if you would let me keep my ID and other cards since they would be worthless to you.” He couldn’t help himself.

Then the gravity of the situation hit him. It’s impact was so great that it warped space and time. He found himself stuck to the ground. He struggled to open his mouth, “Whatever we can do to work this out. I’m sorry I don’t want any trouble. I have a family, I have … take whatever you want.”

“We will take everything.” One of the smaller men flashed a knife.

They were angry, and it seemed like something beyond the effects of the drugs. They were angry at Kennedy. They were angry with his role in society, angry with his double-breasted pea coat and leather shoes, angry that he would go home to something more than waited for them. The world had done them wrong, it had led them to drugs and the position that they were in. They didn’t have control over what they were doing, and the S.A.S. ensured that.

Kennedy attempted to appeal to a sense of fear. “Come on guys, there are cops that drive these roads. Cameras that are capturing us now. If something happens to me, they will come for you. Your lives will be over. You’ll never see those who you love again.”

A few of them seemed to be slightly moved, but really all it did was feed their frustration.

Kennedy had made a mistake. They had nothing to lose. He saw it in their eyes and in their body language. There was no reasoning with these men. His words had only confirmed that he would be the perfect person to repay fate’s debt. For once the world would treat them the same.

Kennedy knew that his aggressors were high and that he was close to home. He felt that he could outrun them, and maybe, if he surprised them, get far enough away that any gunshots would miss. Even if they caught him with a shot, if it wasn’t fatal it would draw enough attention that help would come. It was a gamble, but as they closed in his odds became worse.

“What about you, yeah you there?” Kennedy pointed to a man in the back hoping to distract the group. He turned to run. He hadn’t made it but five steps when he caught himself on the shoelace he never tied and went face first into the ground. He tried to get up, but they were on him like a whip. He felt a chorus of kicks and stomps. Someone had stabbed him a few times. His body went into shock.

His reality melted away as it did once when he had been beaten badly outside of a bar years prior; it was surreal. He was trying to make sense of what was occurring. This was not a bad dream; he would soon be dead. Or maybe it was, he wasn’t sure. Everything he loved about this existence would be forever changed, it would be over. He was scared. He would never return to the only life he had ever known. In the next second, he told himself to be brave, that this happens, that his number was picked, and that he could do nothing more to control what had come to pass and what was yet to come.

One of the men grabbed Kennedy by the hair to prepare his throat for opening. As the moment stretched into a lifetime, he saw what he believed to be his brother, a hundred or so yards away, through the lighted window of their second-floor apartment. Sinatra was in the kitchen preparing a late dinner. The phone was between his head and shoulder, and he was laughing as his hands remained busy slicing an onion into pieces on the cutting board. The reactive tears running down his cheeks were in direct contrast to the hearty laugh he was exuding. Kennedy’s last memory would be this picture of his brother. The thought made Kennedy smile in the instant before his soul escaped into the wind of that cold winter night.