Driving east on I-40, after just having driven thirty miles west, home late from managing Asheville’s Bed Bath & Beyond—and then an hour restocking the wood pile—Brian should have been tired. But his heart and mind raced faster than any speed limit. He tugged on his seatbelt. Why wasn’t he dissolving in the dusk as he so keenly wished? Ahead and behind him, headlights flipped on, and when Brian clicked on his, he noticed how damp the steering wheel was.
[This is the second post in a serial story. Click here to read the first.]
He should be hungry and thirsty. Brian shouldn’t worry. Just relax. Be in the moment. Live life by slogans. Trevor’s a man. Brian should hold his peace. He shouldn’t let their childhood intrude. Brian should just get over it—over everything.
He coasted down Lexington Avenue and there beside the closed Eden’s Café sat Trevor playing guitar, centered in a streetlight’s golden beam.
Brian parked at the curb and got out. Instantly, he was returning Trevor’s hug.
“Iya.”
“You look good.” Brian concealed his surprise at Trevor’s dreadlocks bundled into a huge ball of crocheted red, yellow, green. His brother’s new hiking boots and clean jeans reassured him—Trevor wasn’t destitute. Although the Bob Marley t-shirt looked like the one he was wearing when he had run off with Lauren Lipton. The last time Brian had seen him.
In the car, Brian gulped half the water from the bottle Carla had given him and offered the rest to his brother. Trevor poured it down his throat and capped the steel bottle, putting it between their seats.
Brian sighed. “So, what have you been doing for five years?”
“Tourist trade in Jama-ya-rama, mon.” Trevor had worked in fancy Jamaican hotels where wealthy tourists liked dealing with a blue-eyed Rastaman. “I-and-I sell ganja. Big mark-up but everybody’s happy. Keep it subjectible, a quiet, herbal rich-u-al so the polytricksters do no downpressing.”
“Trevor, speak English. Doesn’t have to be normal; just not an act. Things are hard now. Like I said on the phone.”
“You’re right. The Rastas have their own language, and I love ’em too much to fool with it. Ask Carla. No phony patois when playing reggae. Lunch, dinner, minimum wage, and tips.”
“Tell the truth. How long have you been in town?” Brian asked.
Trevor was twenty-three but skinny and impish. And no matter how much Brian silently insisted that he wasn’t responsible for him, he felt responsible. When Brian was nineteen and Trevor only thirteen, Trevor had moved from their father’s house in Florida to live with Brian, who was then a scholarship student at UNC majoring in history. Trevor went to the public high school where he caused a quiet sensation: Everyone seemed to love him. Or not, everyone: very rarely someone would dislike Trevor. But Brian’s younger brother could tell fast the few who would act against him, and he kept clear of them; didn’t rile them; gave those few souls contrary to his no cause for complaint. Trevor’s luck and popularity only worried Brian, though. Trevor could slide by indefinitely, while Brian believed Trevor’s potential reached far beyond any other person he’d ever met. Brian would always worry about Trevor. He could try to think himself free of anxiety; it made no sense. That was certain: Trevor was bound to do as he liked. Brian’s concern wouldn’t change that. And often when Trevor told Brian not to worry behind the reassurance lay a very risky plan: like selling marijuana in Jamaica; running with the Rastas—wanting to belong, needing roots, and no matter how willing his friends might be, Trevor played the merry prankster: or at least he always had. On the ride home, Trevor wanted Brian to realize he had grown up: no more nonsense. But his funny, slippery behavior had only developed a certain finesse and a hard attempt at a Jamaican accent.
Trevor was apologizing for running off with Brian last live-in girlfriend, “Lauren came on to me like so heavy, Bri. And yeah, I didn’t tear outta there screaming, fire-help-fire-murder-police! But who would? We parted the minute we left—-never heard from her since. Have you?”
When had Trevor lit that fat joint he was inhaling? Before Brian could tell him to put it out, Trevor was passing it to him.
“No. Put it out.”
“You mean, not in the car?”
“Nowhere.”
“That’s not right,” Trevor said. “It’s a purifying ritual for me.”
Brian refused to say more. The anxiety that made his blood rush but his body feel like rock was fast overtaking him. With effort, he turned the car into the Nancy’s Black Mountain Lodge, certain he couldn’t drive another minute. Carla had given up marijuana after college—that’s what she said, anyway. Before that, when she was still a student, Brian knew she was a notorious pot-head.
(Click here to read the next episode.)
