Brandon Marshall Writing

For most people, northern Michigan summers were perfect – daylight until 11 at night, pleasant sunny days, and enjoying the outdoors. For Andrew, Michigan summers were different. They reminded him of a time when he was happy, a time when he had taken everything for granted. But that was the past now. He had to continue on however he could, although his ability to do so each day was draining.

He woke up one summer morning to the buzzing of the cicadas and a warm, heavy breeze shifting through the windows of his living room. Sleepy eyed, he checked the time on his cracked phone and tossed it roughly back on the ground, clanking it against some empty bottles of Black Velvet. He burped and tasted the leftover flavor of the poor decisions he made last night. It didn’t matter what day it was, though, every day was the same for him. He started his days in a hungover fugue and then ate cereal with a twenty-four ounce Natty Daddy while flipping through his television. He would remain there until whenever he started to feel shaky again; the time varied each day depending on how late into the day he had slept. He would then walk over to Hank’s and buy a fifth of Black Velvet and the next day’s Natty Daddy. Then he’d drink until he had forgotten the pain. Occasionally he would change his schedule. He had sometimes gone into town to see the latest action movie or to the beach to drink by Lake Michigan. It had been years since he had ventured out further than Hank’s though.

It was one in the afternoon by the time he awoke. Wind rustled the trees outside. He stretched, let out an acidic yawn, and then grabbed the remote from the stained carpeted floor. He lit a cigarette and puffed as he flipped through the stations. He came to his favorite afternoon program. It was a thriller-drama made social commentary about a guy who lives alone in the desert and maimed tourists. There was something about the old man in the show that Andrew really connected with, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. The show went on for about an hour. After which, he determined it was time to start his day.

Andrew stood and stretched widely. His white wifebeater pulled above his navel and he let out a pleasurable grunt. His teeth were covered in fuzzy socks. He decided it was time to finally brush his teeth again. He could usually go about three days before the socks got too thick and he could no longer bear the smell of his own breath. He hated the bathroom, though. He was disgusted by the reflection of himself. The mirror reminded him of what he had had and what he had fucked up. The mirror was more than just a reflection of his image, but also of who he was as a person. A piece of shit he thought. He could never forgive himself for what he’d given up. He deserved the life he had been living now. He spit toothpaste into the sink and splashed his face with water.

Starting to feel shaky he thought.

That’s how he knew when it was time to get his medicine and Hank was his pharmacist. He knew how to be his own nurse. He didn’t always drink like this, but now it’s all he had. He was best friends with the bottle, and he liked it that way; at least he convinced himself he did. The bottle couldn’t hurt him. He opened the door to his black Subaru hatchback and started his drive into town.

Driving always got to Andrew. It’s when his thoughts finally caught up to him. He couldn’t escape the thoughts. And it didn’t help that his radio had been stolen three years ago. Three years ago he thought. That’s when it happened. Three years ago.

He remembered the day as if it had just happened.

***

“Hey babe, could you pass the water?”

The view from inside the restaurant was astonishing. The moonlit Detroit cityscape glowed. The Renaissance Center dominated the sky with beautiful hues. There they sat, high in the sky, overlooking the city. Andrew was overlooking their future. He felt as if he had been planning this night since the night they met in the college library; since the night he smelled that vanilla perfume that he quickly associated with home. He felt the moisture of his nervous palms and took a deep breath.

“What?” he said to her.

“The water,” she said. “Can you pass it?”

Oh my god he thought. She looked stunning. Her brown eyes were twinkling stars. Her soft skin glistened with the flicker of the candlelight. He felt this way every time he looked at her. He smiled, wiped his hands on his trousers, and filled her cup with water.

“Are you two ready for dessert?” the well-dressed waiter asked.

Gwen started, “I’ll have the—”

The waiter cut her off, “Andrew had some items preselected if that’s okay, ma’am.”

“Oh, uh, of course,” she replied, looking at Andrew puzzled. He had never been the kind of man to order for her. She thought that behavior was misogynistic, and he agreed.

“Close your eyes,” Andrew said to her and grabbed her hands gently. She did.

“Now open them.”

Andrew’s heart was pumped harder than he previously thought was capable. He knelt beside her.

“Holy shit. Holy shit. Andrew! HOLY SHIT! Yes… oh my god. Yes!”

Gwen saw the ring embedded atop the tiramisu. He knew it was her favorite. She laughed and cried at the same time and held him tightly. She kissed him deeply. Applause erupted from behind them. Andrew breathed a sigh of relief and let out a single tear. The pair finished their dessert and headed out, hand in hand.

The night was unusually warm. The air left a wet film on their skin. Andrew knew he should have parked the valet. Gwen didn’t seem to mind. She held firmly onto his arm as they walked from the restaurant and into the night. Andrew had the happiest three block walk he had ever had.

He walked Gwen to her side of the car and opened the door to his hatchback, closing it behind her. A dim streetlight flickered above them. He situated himself in the driver’s seat.

“You sure know how to choose parking spots,” Gwen said to him, jokingly. “You’re always trying to save a buck.”

He laughed. “You know me too well,” he said.

“What’s that on the windshield, babe?” Gwen said and pointed in front of Andrew. “Is that a ticket?”

“Oh, goddammit.”

Andrew unfastened his safety belt and opened his door, exiting swiftly, so they could get home for their post-engagement activities – which either included hot steamy sex or them falling asleep immediately. He could never predict which would happen after a big meal.

He lifted the blue paper from beneath his windshield wiper to examine it. “Hey, Gwen, this doesn’t have anything writ—”

That was the moment everything was taken away from him.

***

Count the telephone poles he thought.

Whenever he was stuck in a malignant loop of thoughts he would count. Counting was mindless. It was a distraction. If he could just focus his mind on something other than her, he could get through his day. Most days counting would work. The other days were dark.

One, two, three…

He remembered the rest of that night as if it were some fever dream. He remembered picking up the faux ticket from the hood of his car. He remembered the sensation of cold steel piercing his right flank. He remembered feeling his lung explode inside his chest once the fragile organ met the point of the blade. He remembered Gwen’s curdled screams, calling out to him as he collapsed onto the pavement.

Four, five, six…

He remembered nodding in and out of consciousness as the pressure in his chest rose. Blackness. Screams. He remembered his eyes opening abruptly to two blasts and the smell of hot thermite. Then, blackness again.

Fucking seven, fucking eight, fucking nine…

The blackness was peaceful though. He lived lifetimes in that blackness. He relived his days with Gwen in that blackness. He relived that night in the library and her indescribable vanilla perfume. He relived their first kiss under a full moon, staring across the river into Canada. He had never tasted such addictive sweetness. He relived the night they both tried magic mushrooms and somehow ended up at a strip club. Gwen had laughed a pool of piss out of her in the Uber home. Then they had laid on the floor, watching wispy rainbow florets dance across the ceiling. He relived the day she moved in. He had surprised her by installing a catwalk throughout his home for her cat. He relived his engagement; he saw her joyous face full of emotion and energy. That image stayed with him until he awoke.

FUCKING TEN, FUCKING ELEVEN, FUCKING TWELVE…

Gwen’s joyous face began to warp; her face distorted inward and twisted upon itself. Her brown eyes shifted and sank deep into her skull; black rings formed around them. Her plump red lips dried and cracked before him. Her nose crusted. Her skin paled and then turned ashen. A red hole developed in the center of her forehead. He stared at his fiancé under the alternating shades of blue and red. She lay next to him. Her lifeless eyes stared into his as he gasped for air. A drop of dried blood stuck to her forehead at the site of her bullet wound. A police officer covered her slowly with a white sheet. He couldn’t take a deep enough breath to cry until he felt the paramedic’s sharp needle stab into his chest. His lungs filled with air. His eyes filled like wells. He wished it had been him.

These cyclical thoughts penetrated his psyche every day. Usually if the counting didn’t work and he got this far he would succumb to a panic that only the bottle could treat. He arrived back behind the wheel after his dissociation and realized he was parked at Hank’s.

Hank was a 74 year-old Vietnam veteran and retired mechanic. He spent his retirement running his liquor store and shooting the shit with his gaggle of usuals. He operated an illegal bar and sports betting ring in the basement. He figured he did his time for this country and now he deserves to retire how he wants to. The front door chimed open.

“Hey bud, the usual?” Hank said in a raspy voice. He nodded to welcome Andrew. His face and hands were scarred with deep pits of chloracne. A few spots looked cancerous, but he didn’t give a fuck.

“These demons ain’t gonna fight themselves, Hank,” Andrew said back with a smirk. His tongue quivered against the roof of his closed mouth.

“Ha! That’s my boy. I gotta keep one in my breast pocket just in case I start seeing fuckin’ Eddie skewered on one of them Punji sticks again. Now there’s a fun one that likes to keep coming back!”

Hank knew everything about Andrew. He had spent hours in the bar confiding and venting with him. He often worried about Andrew, but who was he to judge? He treated his pain the same way.

“28.09, my man,” Hank said.

“You know I’m good for it Monday, right?” Andrew said, embarrassed. “Check will clear Monday.”

“You got it, bud, I trust you. Hey, by the way, did you see the carnival was coming to town tomorrow? First time that crew has been through these parts since I was a boy. I still remember sitting at the top of that Ferris wheel looking down the shirts of all the older girls trying to catch a nipple. Ha! Anyways, you should go! Might do ya some good getting out of the house and shit. Besides, they got a beer tent. I think it might be time for you to scope out some of that local talent!”

“Uh, yeah, I’ll think about it,” Andrew replied, hesitantly. The thought of drinking beer in a tent and shooting his shot with a bunch of middle aged northern Michigan women sounded appalling to him. He smiled politely and left for home.

Andrew lay awake in bed that night ruminating on the imagery that burdened his drive that day. He had so many regrets about that night, and he had been trying to drown them every day for three years. They used to drown. They alcohol used to work. He used to be numb. The problem was now the regrets would swim. It’s as if the alcohol loosened them from their mind crevices and pushed them down his stream of thought.

I’m going to that dumb carnival.