Jon Harahan
No Complaints
Listening to the radio is the only time of the day I can really enjoy myself. I sit in my car and listen. I am listening to a movie review about a movie I have no interest in seeing.
My peace is interrupted by a tapping on my passenger window. At first I see a stranger, but as my mind wakes up and my eyes adjust, an old friend is staring back at me.
We are both parked in this parking lot, in our home town, but for two different reasons.
It is cold out, and windy. I don’t want to talk long, but I get out of my car and we do anyway. My jacket is too thin. What do my friend and I talk about? Mainly he wants to know how my brother is holding up after witnessing a murder: My brother saw his own best friend killed.
“As good as can be expected, I guess.”
I am picking up food at my favorite pizza place. My friend can’t find a job after graduating with a degree in History. So he is in that parking lot to head inside the Marine Recruiting Center and sign up. Then he asks me how I am holding up. I had been standing on a bridge made of toothpicks and spit. My little bridge wasn’t holding up well, and his question was unexpected.
“Me? I’m great.”
My brother should be dead, too.
I try to talk to my brother about what happened, but I keep fucking it up. My brother is a junior in college. He was robbed of a cell phone, and his friend was robbed of $4.00, not including his life. My brother was pistol-whipped and ran. His friend ran, too. They were both track stars. They could each run a quarter mile in under sixty seconds. His friend only made it a few feet until he hit the pavement. My brother hit the pavement, too. But it was because he tripped. As he got up to continue, he left the skin of his hands and knees behind. His body replaced the skin with scars.
I am about to eat my favorite meal, and my friend is about to join the military out of necessity. I hadn’t been killed, nor had my friend. In fact, when my friend goes to open the door of the recruiting center, it is locked. They are closed. Considering all of this, I am fine.
My peace is interrupted by a tapping on my passenger window. At first I see a stranger, but as my mind wakes up and my eyes adjust, an old friend is staring back at me.
We are both parked in this parking lot, in our home town, but for two different reasons.
It is cold out, and windy. I don’t want to talk long, but I get out of my car and we do anyway. My jacket is too thin. What do my friend and I talk about? Mainly he wants to know how my brother is holding up after witnessing a murder: My brother saw his own best friend killed.
“As good as can be expected, I guess.”
I am picking up food at my favorite pizza place. My friend can’t find a job after graduating with a degree in History. So he is in that parking lot to head inside the Marine Recruiting Center and sign up. Then he asks me how I am holding up. I had been standing on a bridge made of toothpicks and spit. My little bridge wasn’t holding up well, and his question was unexpected.
“Me? I’m great.”
My brother should be dead, too.
I try to talk to my brother about what happened, but I keep fucking it up. My brother is a junior in college. He was robbed of a cell phone, and his friend was robbed of $4.00, not including his life. My brother was pistol-whipped and ran. His friend ran, too. They were both track stars. They could each run a quarter mile in under sixty seconds. His friend only made it a few feet until he hit the pavement. My brother hit the pavement, too. But it was because he tripped. As he got up to continue, he left the skin of his hands and knees behind. His body replaced the skin with scars.
I am about to eat my favorite meal, and my friend is about to join the military out of necessity. I hadn’t been killed, nor had my friend. In fact, when my friend goes to open the door of the recruiting center, it is locked. They are closed. Considering all of this, I am fine.
