He laughs.
“All right,” he says. “I just want to warn you that Chris can be a little hard to deal with when he’s been drinking and he was working on a bottle when I left. Just remember that he’s my brother, okay?” he asks. “He’s not me.”
With that, we change directions and head for his place. We don’t talk much on the way. When we get to his house, though, I start to believe what he’s been telling me.
There’s a man sprawled over the porch swing in front of Mason’s house. The man’s wearing nothing but his boxers.
“Great,” Mason mutters. “Could you help me get him inside?”
“That’s him?” I ask, over the drunken man’s loud snoring.
“That’s Chris,” Mason says. He smacks Chris a few times moderately on the cheek, waking him, at least partially, from his slumber.
“Heey, buddy,” Chris mumbles. “I’m just catsching some winks. I’ll be outta your way in a minute.”
“Come on,” Mason says, grabbing one of his brothers arms and pulling the latter upright. “Let’s get you inside before my neighbors start complaining.”
“I’m goood,” Chris says and tries to lie back down, but Mason’s still got his arm. Chris pivots, what appears to be unintentionally, out of the porch swing and Mason has to grab him so he doesn’t fall to the ground.
“Come on, Chris,” Mason grunts, trying to lift his brother to a standing position. “You’re kind of making me look bad.”
“Naw,” Chris says. His eyes open a little wider when he spots me standing there. “Well heyya there,” he slurs. “Can I buy you a drink, pretty lady?”
“Does he always drink like this?” I ask.
“He’s more of a binge-drinker,” Mason explains. “I think it’s a stress thing.”
Chris is now trying to stand up and straighten the tie that he’s not wearing, apparently in an attempt to look more presentable for my benefit. I walk over and grab Chris’s free arm, helping Mason get him into the unlocked house.
“You’ve got to stop doing this,” Mason says. “I’ve got neighbors, you know. Not only that, I’d like to be able to have people over without having to make excuses for you.”
Chris’s head tilts toward his Mason, and the former belches loudly in response to the scolding.
“We’ve also got to start getting you to brush your teeth after you’ve been drinking,” Mason says, crinkling his nose.
We get Chris to the couch and sit him down while Mason cleans empty potato chip bags and half-eaten candy bars out of the way. Finally, we get Chris lied down and covered with a blanket.
Mason motions for me to come with him.
I follow.
We get to a bedroom and Mason shows me inside, closing the door once we’re both inside.
“I’m sorry about that,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “It’s not really what I wanted you to think of when you think of my place.”
“Yeah,” I answer, looking around the room. “I think I can appreciate that now. I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.”
The room is modest, its only major furnishings being a queen-sized bed against one wall and an old, worn-down desk in the corner. It’s nothing elaborate, but at least it’s clean, comfortable.
“This is your room?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’d give you the full tour, but I’d rather not disturb Chris. He has a tendency of waking up when you least want him to, and I’d rather we not have to deal with him right now.”
“Yeah,” I answer again, sitting on Mason’s bed.
Right now, I’m a mess of conflicting emotions. On the one hand, Mason has been telling the truth about his brother. On the other hand, this kind of dysfunction is almost always a sign there’s a lot more going on under the surface.
“So, the two of you went different directions, huh?” I ask. “Why do you think that is?”