Brian staggers past them, and on cue the glares and sneers start. His blue eyes are wild as he searches for me amongst the crowd. Hushed whispers and giggles build into open ridicule.
“Who’s that?”
“Gross.”
“Oh, God. He smells.”
“Total junkie.”
“Crack kills.”
“Lay off the bath salts, dude.”
It no longer upsets me the way it used to when I was in high school. I’ve learned to tune them out––the haters. I’ve learned to stop throwing punches.
These people don’t know him. They don’t know that my older brother used to be my best friend. That he was an honor role student, a world-class swimmer, and an exceptional water polo player. Brian’s the reason I got into polo in the first place. I wanted to be just like him. Until he met Jessie and everything went to shit. These people have no idea how he got to be a junkie and yet they judge him.
“Brian.”
At the sound of my voice he glances my way and relief spreads over his face, which is looking worse for wear these days. His eyes are sunken in and skin leathery from living on the streets. Beard heavy and hair matted. Twenty-four going on a hundred and five.
“Rea––Rea, I need money, man. I need it bad,” he says talking fast. He fidgets with his hands, alternating between running them through his matted brown hair and stuffing them in his front pockets. He shifts on his feet. Pupils blown out.
I’m not surprised that he’s high. I’m only surprised at how gut-wrenchingly painful it still is to see him like this. After all these years you would think I would’ve grown accustomed to it.
“Okay, Bri. Come with me and we’ll talk.”
“I need the money,” he insists, his eyes nervously shifting around. Never landing on anything or anyone for too long.
I go to grab him and my hand swallows up his bicep, my fingers completely curling around his arm. It’s another stab of pain. A gut check. This time it’s coupled with the knowledge that time is running out. That I may not be able to save him from what is starting to look like the inevitable.
I lead him away from the pool, toward the back of the aquatics building where my Jeep is parked. The collective attention of the crowd follows us until we’re out of sight, the feeling palpable.
Brian comes reluctantly, mumbling that he needs money, while I keep reassuring him that I have some in the car. I need to get him back to my house and fed. Maybe with a little luck cleaned up…if he’ll let me.
“Come home with me and you can have something to eat. Maybe take a shower. I’ll give you my clothes…”
He shakes his head and scratches his neck. He’s twitching, in need of a fix. “I got people waiting. Maybe next time.”
I can’t keep the fear out of my eyes. I know it’s there as blatantly as I know he doesn’t see it. “Brian, c’mon, man. Do it for me. I’m worried about you.”
He shakes his head fast, gaze cast on the asphalt. He always hated disappointing me when we were kids. Not everything’s changed. “You look like shit. I’m saying this because I’m scared you’re going to end up like Jessie.” My throat feels thick, swollen with the feeling of helplessness that comes up every time I talk to him.
At the mention of his dead girlfriend his eyes lift and come to life.
“I live in a constant fucking state of fear that I’m going to get a phone call. Don’t do that to me, bro.”
His face cracks into an awkward smile and I almost find him in there, the brother he was before all this got started.
“I’m…I’m begging you to try rehab one last time.”
“Nah. Nah, man,” he says, shaking his head really fast and shifting from foot to foot. I look down and notice a deep laceration on his left foot.
“Just one last time. One more chance and I’ll never ask again.”
“You got the money? I need the money, little brother.”
He won’t even make eye contact. He’s already shut me out. More of the same. This is how it always goes with him. Depressing as shit.
Reaching into the back seat of the Jeep, I pull out a pair of brand-new, limited edition Nikes and hand them over. “Put these on first…and you need to have that cut looked at. It’s going to get infected.”
Brian quickly drops to the hard ground and jams his dirty, bleeding feet into the shiny, new kicks. Once he’s done tying them, he stands and holds out his dry cracked palm. I pull out two fifty-dollar bills and hold them up.
“Do not sell those kicks. Call me if you need anything.”
He nods. His blue eyes flicker to me and away, to the horizon. I place the bills in his palm and he crumbles them up, stuffs them in the front pocket of his jeans.