Van waves a bunch of papers. “What the hell is this?”
I bat them out of my face and step forward so I’m blocking the way into my trailer.
He’s a big guy. Giving him an opportunity to barrel his way into my personal space doesn’t seem like a smart idea. Sort of like inviting a grizzly bear to lick honey off your face in a cave.
My move forces him to step back down, putting him a few inches below me. I grab the papers and scan them. It’s a cable bill. For a grand. And a printout of this month’s bill as well, which has already amassed a similar amount in charges. “It’s an expensive cable bill.”
I try to hand it back to him, but he shakes his head. “I’ve been here a week! How could I rack up a thousand dollars in charges?”
“Why are you asking me? It’s not like I know what your TV habits are.”
“It’s all for on-demand porn! Hundreds and hundreds of dollars on porn! You don’t even need to pay for that shit. You can watch it for free wherever and whenever.”
He has a point, but the internet connection up here is basically crap. At least the package my family always had is. I have never been an internet-porn watcher, but I’ve tried streaming, and I can’t even watch a music video or a news clip without it buffering at least once. I imagine with actual porn it’s probably way worse. I flip through the pages, noting charge after charge for on-demand adult movies with bad titles like Buffy the Penis Slayer and Let’s Get Pucked. They all seem to be toward the end of the month and have increased in frequency and volume over the past two weeks. I had no idea that a cable bill could be so detailed.
I drag my eyes back up from the endless list and meet his angry maple gaze. “I don’t know what you want me to do with this. Unless you’re looking for a referral for counseling or something because you’re a sex addict.”
“I’m not a sex addict! I haven’t even had sex in, like . . . months!” He tries to flail but hits his hand on the trailer door.
“Well, that might explain all these charges.”
“They’re not my charges!”
I shrug. “They’re not mine either. I’ve been here for less time than you! Besides, there’s a video store in town. They have an adult section. You could rent a few and save yourself the money. Or, like you said, you could browse the free sites instead of paying all this money to watch the on-demand stuff. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get ready for work.” I toss the papers at him, and they scatter on the ground at his feet.
When he bends to pick them up, I close the door and lock it.
By the time I’ve gathered my shower supplies, he’s gone. Thankfully.
I head to the house wearing my nightshirt so I can pick a non-campfire-scented outfit to wear to the office. It doesn’t take me long to shower and get ready for work.
On my way through the kitchen, I pour myself a travel mug of coffee and nab one of my mom’s famous homemade granola bars. She wraps them individually so they stay fresh. I toss the Saran into the garbage and notice the mountain of tissue sitting on top.
And then it dawns on me.
Those charges have been building for a while now.
And the recent uptick seems to correspond quite nicely with the amount of time my brother has been laid up with a broken ankle.
I set the coffee on the counter and head for Billy’s bedroom. He doesn’t answer when I knock, which isn’t much of a surprise, since it’s only six forty-five.
I open the door, cautiously, with one eye closed and the other one squinty, on the off chance he’s sleeping naked or something.
Thankfully he’s not. He’s lying on the bed, mostly cover-free, wearing a pair of boxers. He’s always been a wiry guy, but instead of filling out in his twenties, he stretched and got even leaner.
His mouth hangs open, the black eyes from the airbag deploying in his face during the accident now faded to green. He looks almost childlike while he’s sleeping. For a moment I’m sad that this is where he’s ended up and that I’ve had to come home, too, as a result. We weren’t exactly close, but we didn’t fight all the time. Except when he was getting up to no good and I was saving his ass. I couldn’t help him this time, though.
I spot his laptop on the floor beside his bed. I pick it up and sit down on the chair in the corner of the room, piled high with laundry that, based on the smell, needs to be run through the washing machine. It’s password protected, so I hit the number one four times and press enter. I roll my eyes when it lets me in. It’s also his phone password.