My Brother Theo

The subject of 'My Surreal Christmas' story. He likes his drink.

 

My Brother Theo

 

 

I’m on my laptop lying in bed.  My little girl is asleep and I’ve pushed the heat up just a tad to keep the chill out.  I haven’t spoken to my brother today and he usually calls-unless it’s a payday.  Money in his pocket meant a drunken binge was going to take place.

 

It’s 10pm and my house phone rings.  The cordless headset sits in the livingroom and charges all night.  Just about all of my family and friends know to call me on my cellphone as my free minutes kick in at 7pm.  After the third ring, I reluctantly answer the bothersome phone before the answering machine clicks on; I know who it is.  It’s my drunken brother Theodore.  He always calls around this time when he’s been drinking and usually it’s the first of at least three calls.  He’s like a chemically impaired child craving attention.

 

“Ay…ay, sis!  Whutaryadoin?”  (Translated to: “Hello sis! What are you doing?”)

 

“Hi Theo.”  I sigh, feeling a headache and walking into the bathroom to grab the Advil.

 

“You know…you know what I mean?”  He laughs, while I scratch my head as I don’t know what the f**k he is talking about!

 

“Where are you?”  Me asking this is the equivalent of a buzzkill.  He didn’t need this s**t!

 

“Ahhhh!  Imago. (I’m going to go) Bye, bye, BYE!” Obviously, I wasn’t any fun.  Still, I must try to cajole him to go home.

 

“Wait, Theo!  Hold on, I didn’t catch what you said before!”  Whew!  He didn’t hang up the phone!

 

“I said, we gonna make some money!  Did you hear that?  Listen, I got- (He stops rambling and lets out a loud laugh and starts talking to some other guy.  I patiently wait on the other end while they have a little mushmouthed conversation; slurred words only they can translate as even I can’t figure out what’s going on.  Eventually he gets back.) …ay, ay man, I got some monnnneeyyyy!  Shhhiet, man, I’m…this girl gave me her number!”  Ugh, I don’t want to know anything seamy.  He has a fiancée (for the past six years or so!) and three little kids at home.  I pray that he’s using protection.  The Advil hasn’t kicked in yet.

 

“Theo, why don’t you give me a call when you get home?  I want to know about this money.”

 

“Youdonwannatalk!  (You don’t want to talk!) I’m leaving, I’m leaving!”  He can tell that I’m trying to trick him to go home.

 

“No, seriously I want to hear what you are saying but there are too many people in the background.  I can’t hear you!”  Too late, he hung up before I could finish my plea.  He smelt through my bullshit.  I take the headset and bring it into my room and place it next to my bed.  After a couple of hours, I shut the computer off and go to sleep. 

                

 

RING!!!

 

The phone scares the s**t out of me!  I check my cellphone for the time and it’s now 1:30a.  Either it’s some bad news of some sort from a family member or it’s my drunk a*s brother bothering me.  I already knew when I grab the phone; it’s Theo’s stupid gibberish.

 

“Whhhutaryooodoin?”  He’s absolutely fucked up!  I can hear his staggering steps in the street.

 

“Theo, where ARE you?  Do you know what time it is?  Go home!”  I’m beyond pissed as well as tired to trying to reason-I have to get up early and get my child ready for school.

 

“I’m where I’m at!”  (He laughs at his own humor)

 

“(Sighing for the umpteenth time) Don’t you have work tomorrow, I meant today?”  I’m legitimately curious as he doesn’t hold down a job for too long.  It’s not unusual for him to have four or five W2 forms to fill during tax time every year.

 

“I know…I’m going home.  Ay, we’re gonna make money!  Remember!”

 

“I know, Theo.  Big time bucks.  I love you.”

 

“Love you too.”  The conversation is closed.  I toss and turn and for a minute start to silently cry.  Theo was my main inspiration for writing.  My brother has/had talent; he had a shoebox full of poetry that blew me away.  I mean, his stuff was deep and insightful; I’m not just saying that because he’s my brother neither.  I have one of his poems on my refrigerator that wrote 20 years ago.  Everytime he gets drunk, he always brings up money and how he wants us to write together and publish our stuff.  His pipe dreams hurt me because I know deep down inside it’s painful for him that he never tried to follow his own path.  Drugs and alcohol tends to derail your goals, and while he’s no longer on the pipe, he’s been abusing his liver for over 15 years.  He is now 46.

 

As I drift off to sleep, I am happy that I was able to tell him that I love him.  One of these days I may not get the chance after he goes on one of his hours or days long binges.  He knows I love him too; maybe that’s why he calls me when he’s sloppy drunk.  During one of his disoriented phone calls, he let slip out that he appreciated my nagging; that he loved it.  It took me awhile to stop crying after he said that.  Like I mentioned, he knew I cared.  His beer soaked brain registers my compassion.

 

Ah, my brother…

Reviews

[Janyce Helen Van Es]

Great story. I like the way you break up the conversation and the font.
Couple of little mistakes-
First italisized paragraph-"asleep", not "sleep"
Last line neds to be in present tense.

I was married to clones of your brother for years. I finally got my latest husband of 16 years sober by the age of 57 - but now he's depressed at 59.

Addiction doesn't go away. A dry drunk is sometimes as bad as a wet one. I feel sad for you-you don't need that in your life.