Blue Light

by Taylor Monet Welch

I’ve been leaning on the side of my Kia, cigarette in tow, for the past ten minutes. 

I take a long drag.

Maxine Nightingale’s “Right Back Where We Started From” was playing from the inside of my car, which quickly transitioned over to “California Dreamin’” by the Mamas and the Papas. I made a playlist. I made a playlist to make this transition a little easier. I thought the satire would satisfy some twisted part in my brain, but so far, I’ve ended up screaming thrice. 

Donovan’s “Season of the Witch” starts up. 

 I smirk. 

Throw my cigarette on the rubble below my feet. 

Twist it into the ground with my toes.

Wait for the next to arrive. 

I’m waiting just long enough for the song to end before a black Porsche Boxster screeches into the driveway. 

He’s got two pearl necklaces on-- one on top of the other-- with an unbuttoned shirt to showcase his chestpiece. Not a great tattoo. An eagle with a pair of red underwear in its beak, wings outstretched. 

I can’t tell if he’s smiling when he sees me; he’s got a pair of aviators on that shadow most of his expression. He presses the “lock” button on his keys and the door makes a loud beeping sound. 

He’s just staring at me. 

So I say, “Hey, brother.”

And he says, “Hi, Will.”

I approach him cautiously, hand outstretched for a shake. To my great surprise, he pulls me in close, embracing me in a tight hug. His pearls press into my face. It’s not normal-- it’s not what I was expecting-- so I let go of him quickly, patting him twice on the back. 

“Nice to uh, see you,” I mutter. 

“You smell like smoke,” he remarks. 

I don’t answer. 

“I thought you quit,” he continues. 

“Well you know what they say,” I sigh. “Nicotine is a smooth, seductive son of a bitch.” 

“Oh, little Williams Martella,” my brother mocks, making a teary-eyed face. “Can’t stop smoking long enough for it to stick.”

“Shut up,” I snap. “It’s not your problem.”

And that’s the entire deal with Riverside Martella. He’s got this superiority complex-- a leg-up on the rest of us just because he’s owned up to his issues. He doesn’t hide anything. He wears his entire life on his tatted sleeves, and frankly, it pisses me off. 

“You’re right,” he relents. “And it won’t be my problem when you’ve got a hole in your throat, or all your teeth fall out. Then it’ll be your problem.”

I don’t acknowledge the comment. Instead, I look down the driveway, staring at the open gate. 

“Were you the first here?” Riverside asks me. 

I nod. “Anxiety always gets me places too early.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Half an hour.”

I lift my heel and stare at the half-used cigarette, wishing I wouldn’t have tossed it as quickly as I did. It’s covered in dirt now, though, wedged between two stones. 

Riverside throws his arms up in the air, making a stretching sound as he balls up his fists. “This is going to blow,” he comments. “You know that, right? You know this is going to blow?”

“Yeah,” I mutter. 

“I mean, have you done half the stuff they’ve asked you to?” he continues. “I barely made it through page one without falling asleep. I skipped to the part where it tells you what to bring.”

“What were you supposed to bring?” I ask.

“Tears from an innocent,” he answers. “And at first, I was like, oh! That can be me! I’m innocent as the day is long.”

I snicker. 

“And then I remembered,” he finishes, “that I’m a filthy, filthy animal.”

I nod, but just a little. “Yeah,” I agree. 

“What were you supposed to bring?” Riverside asks me. 

I reach into my pocket, pulling out a ziplock bag of graying hairs. “Warning of death,” I reply.

Riverside takes the ziplock bag, holding it up to eye-level. “How’d you get this?”

I frown. “How’d you get your tears?”

He smirks. “Went to a playground,” he brags. “Told a little boy his parents had left him there. And bam! Tears. He was so distracted that he didn’t mind me bottling them up. Course, I had to make a mad break for it before his parents saw me. That was the tricky part.” 

“I went to a hair salon,” I tell him. “Asked if I could take the hair. They all-too-quickly agreed.” 

“Stylists are the weirdest fucking--”

We both turn our heads at a newfound sound-- a bicycle bell-- coming up the driveway. There rides my eldest brother, Fremont, decked out in complete biking gear. Helmet. Bike shorts. Gripped shoes. He waves when he sees us, pulling his bicycle next to my car. 

“Hey, you guys!” he smiles. 

Riverside crosses his arms. “Are you sweaty?” he asks. 

Fremont does a pit-check before shaking his head. “No,” he defends. “I don’t live too far out.”

At this, Riverside embraces Fremont, finishing with a tight squeeze. “You look old,” Riverside comments. “Like, old, old.”

Fremont laughs. “That’s what two kids will do to you,” he jokes. 

“Or drugs,” Riverside adds. “That's why I’m so youthful. Because I’m not an idiot.”

“I’m not doing that anymore,” Fremont says, shaking his head. “It was stupid, and I don’t need another accident.” 

The three of us stand awkwardly, until Fremont leans over to give me a hug. “Hey, Williams,” he grins. “Long time, sis.”

I nod. “Yeah,” I agree. 

“So let’s see it,” Riverside demands. “What did Mumsie and Popsicle ask you to bring this time?” 

Fremont’s wearing a fanny pack. He pulls out a canister of dirt. “Sign of rebirth,” he tells us. “Got it from my garden.”

Riverside snorts. “Oh, you have a garden now?” he teases. “Big man, got a bicycle and a plot of soil. I’m Fremont, and I have succumbed to the suburban lifestyle.” 

Fremont shrugs. “Yeah, a little bit,” he smiles. “It’s actually been pretty nice.”

“That’s great, Monty,” Riverside congratulates. “Just don’t come crawling back to me if a line of coke wanders up your nasal cavity.” I shove Riverside in the arm, causing him to turn on me. “Also, our sister is smoking again,” he adds. 

Fremont frowns. “That’s not good, Will,” he reprimands. 

My anxiety sprints to the surface. 

“I know!” I exclaim. “I don’t need you two, of all people, to tell me that!” 

“Whoa,” Fremont defends, throwing his hands palm-out against his chest. “We just care about you.”

“Fremont cares about you,” Riverside corrects. “I just don’t want my clothes smelling like smoke.”

“Speaking of smoke,” Fremont interjects, pointing at my Kia, “whose car is this? It’s really bad for the environment to leave a car running.”

I open the driver’s side door and unclick the keys from the ignition. “There,” I mutter. 

Fremont smiles. “Thanks,” he says. 

I do a little fake smile back, and hesitantly gesture toward the house. “Um, shall we?” I ask. 

The path leading from the driveway to the front door is a million miles long. Given, it always felt much longer when we were younger, but it hasn’t lessened up by much. 

So there we are, the three of us, walking through the threshold, allowing the door to creak shut behind us.