I’ve heard it said that the beginning is the best place to start. I don’t know if I buy into that. Let me give you an example. Which of the following scenarios is the more intriguing: a regular guy sipping from a paper cup at the local coffee shop across the table from his pretty girlfriend who reads aloud the previous days events from a newspaper or a severely intoxicated man staggering down the street in a hurried and desperate attempt to elude the clutches of an indignant old car mechanic brandishing a rather large wrench and gaining on the poor fleeing drunkard while a second inebriated individual follows close behind, blasting a fire extinguisher at random, but frequent, intervals?
If your answer is the former scenario then I feel compelled to call into question your grasp on the definition of the word “intrigue.” No, the beginning of this story is dull so I won’t start with the coffee. I’m going to start with the wrench and the fire extinguisher and the running away. Although…now that I think about it, you might need just a little more information so I’ll back up a hair.
My girlfriend, Martha, and I sat at the bar in our favorite watering hole. I sipped on my third glass of scotch (neat, of course) and Martha enjoyed her second glass of a fine pinot noir. We were quite content to simply have a calm evening together without any drama. Content, that is, until Martha’s best friend entered and approached us at the bar. She already reeked of liquor and beer. She sat down beside Martha and slurred, “Three shots of…whatever…I don’t care,” and she held up four fingers. The bartender looked her over and nodded. He grabbed a bottle of tequila and poured the shots.
“Is everything alright, Elise?” Martha asked. Elise looked at her and her face brightened up slowly as she drunkenly recognized her best friend.
“Martha!” she exclaimed, “I didn’t see you there. What a fantas—“ she hiccupped, “a fantas—“ she hiccupped again, “What a great surprise.”
“You didn’t see me?” Martha asked, “then who are all the shots for?”
“What?” Elise couldn’t quite comprehend Martha’s rather simple question.
“Why did you get three shots if you didn’t see Matt and I?”
“I’m celebrating! I just broke up with Brad.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Martha replied.
“Meh,” said Elise with a dismissive wave of her hand, “Men are the worst anyway.” She noticed me for the first time. “Oh, hi Mike,” she said, “I didn’t see you there.”
“Matt,” I replied, “and don’t worry. None taken.”
She stared at me as though I had a rainbow waterfall pouring from my nostrils.
The bartender placed four shots in front of Elise and walked away. Elise offered her drunken thanks, but he didn’t seem to hear her. She reached for the nearest tequila. Martha stopped her.
Hey,” cried Elise.
“You’ve had enough,” Martha said.
“But they’ll go to waste,” Elise whined.
“No, they won’t,” explained Martha, “Matt will drink them for you.”
“What?” I decided it might be best for my health if I interjected at this point. Martha gave me a sharp elbow to the stomach. Apparently, she had decided it would be best for Elise’s health if I neglected my wellbeing. I quickly got the tequila shots down my throat and out of sight.
“Shit,” I groaned. Martha elbowed me again.
“Language,” she said, “Elise, why don’t you go home and sleep this off? We can talk tomorrow.”
“Fine,” said Elise, and she stormed out of the bar.
“That was easy,” Martha said. She was a little too smug for my liking.
“Easy for you, maybe.” My head was already swimming.
We continued our peaceful night for a little while, but before too long I felt the strong desire to go home. I paid the tab (which included Elise’s four shots, I might add) and we stood to leave. Before we could get to the door though, something caught Martha’s eye. Elise was back at the bar with three new shots. Evidently, she’d managed to hold up the correct amount of fingers this time.
Martha whisked me off in her direction before I even had a chance to protest. We got there just in time for Martha to swipe the first shot from Elise’s hand and shove it in mine.
“Hey,” cried Elise.
“You’ve got to be kidding right now,” I said, “I’m not drinking these.”
“If you don’t, she will and I’m worried about her,” Martha replied.
“What about me?”
“You’ll be fine.”
I sighed and threw three more shots down the hatch. Tomorrow morning would be the worst I’d had in a long time. There was no choice but to surrender to my fate.
The bartender set a tall, foamy glass of beer in front of Elise. The two ladies looked at me.
“Hell no,” I spat, “I’m cutting myself…off.”
Martha took the beer and quickly downed the entire pint in one massive swig…like a champion.
“Why—did you—drink that?” asked Elise through a series of unflattering hiccups.
“So you wouldn’t,” Martha answered.
“I wasn’t going to,” said Elise, “I didn’t order it.”
“You what?” Exclaimed Martha, “Then who did?” Elise shrugged. “Bartender,” Martha demanded, “Where did that beer come from?”
“That guy over there,” the bartender replied. He gestured towards an incredibly sketchy man with greasy hair, dirty clothes, and an oddly elongated neck. The creepy man waved at us and, it’s possible this was the booze talking, but I swear he licked his lips. I suppose I could have been imagining it simply because his appearance so resembled a snake or a lizard.
“Oh shit,” cried Martha.
“Language,” I said. Martha’s swift, icy glare informed me that this joke was in poor taste. I withered.
“Why didn’t you stop me?” she implored, returning her attention to Elise.
“I thought you could use it,” Elise answered, “You seem pretty high strung.”
Martha was on the verge of exploding. I told Elise that she’d best get home and fast.
“With any luck,” I said, “Martha’s been roofied and she won’t remember this tomorrow…otherwise, she might kill you.”
Elise drunkenly darted from the bar, tripping over a table or two on the way out. Martha’s gaze pierced right through me as if I had singlehandedly caused the whole thing.
“Well, now who’s gonna drive home?” she asked, “You’re drunk and I’ve been roofied.”
“We don’t know that for sure—
“Of course, we do! Look at the sleaze-bag who gave it to me. Everything about that guy screams ‘sicko pervert!’”
“I didn’t roofie your drink,” said the creepy guy as he sashayed towards us. He seemed downright wounded at the accusation and, for a moment, I thought he might cry. “It was LSD.” He skulked out of the bar like an amateur comedian after getting booed off the stage at an open mic while his beloved grandmother led the relentless and unforgiving hecklers in their taunting jeers.
“Oh god,” Martha groaned, “What are we gonna do?”
“You’re gonna pay me my damn money.” I turned to find myself face to face with a rather large car mechanic. Dirt and grime clung to his skin, oil coated his clothes, his smudged glasses seemed to be counter productive, and the wrench that dangled menacingly from his angry fist threatened pain.
“Give me my money, Bob,” said the mechanic.
“I think there’s been some sort of misunderstanding,” I drunkenly endeavored to explain, “My name is Matt.”
“Your name is Matt?” I heaved a sigh of relief. Even as intoxicated as I was, I might just be able to reason with this furious mechanic. “If that’s true then I’m looking for someone who looks exactly like you.”
“That’s probably because—
But then, far too quickly for me to prevent in my current condition, Martha blasted the mechanic’s face with the dust-like contents of a fire extinguisher and shouted, “Fire!” at the top of her lungs. The mechanic cried out in shock and I bolted out the door.
“I knew it was you, you bastard,” the mechanic screamed after me. He followed me and Martha followed him. As I scrambled to get away from the mechanic and his bloodthirsty wrench, I had a sudden realization…oh, wait. That’s not going to make any sense. I’m going to have to take a few more steps back in my story.
You see, earlier that day, Martha and I had run into my old pal from high school: Jordan. Now, Jordan was the epitomization of the hyperbolic definition of what many have called a “drama kid.” You know the type. That guy or girl who did theater in high school and peaked there so now they act like a played out movie star and ham up every situation with needless, and pretentious, theatrical exuberance. It’s a little sad, but that’s Jordan in a nutshell.
Martha and I were on our way to an early dinner and we were ravenous. As we reached the door of the restaurant, Jordan called out to me from across the street.
“Matthew Braxton,” he said, “Could it be? Do my eyes deceive me? Is that really you, Matthew?”
He scurried across the street with reckless disregard for life and limb and the use of crosswalks. If he heard the blaring car horns, you’d never have guessed. He proceeded on his course, oblivious to all else around him.
“Matthew,” he said once he reached the sidewalk, “It is you. It’s been so long. My how I’ve missed the days when we would hang out.”
We really didn’t hang out all that much…and when we did, it was more because his sister was gorgeous than because I enjoyed his company.
“Matthew,” Jordan said again, “You are going to be so happy we ran into each other on today of all days.”
“What’s today?” I asked. It seemed just like any other day to me.
“Matthew,” Jordan said yet again. I’d forgotten how annoying that was. “Today’s the day we both get rich!” He paused as though I should know what the big secret was, but I didn’t so he eventually continued. “It’s perfect, Matthew,” he said, “I was playing cards with your brother earlier today and we figured the whole thing out.”
“Which brother?” I asked.
“We’re going to develop an app, Matthew. You know, for cellphones and stuff.”
“Which brother?”
“And then we’re going to sell it and make millions. Millions, Matthew! And we want you involved because you have great salesmanship. We’re going to need that to get this business off the ground.”
“Which brother?”
“I’m so excited, Matthew! We’re going to have all th—
“Stop saying my name, damn it. And tell me which brother.”
“You know your brother, Matthew.”
I sighed. It was pointless. Jordan had always been this way. He was far too one-track minded for his own good. I attempted a different approach.
“Do either of you know how to develop an app?” I asked.
“I’m glad you brought that up, Matthew,” Jordan replied, “We know exactly what the app is going to be.”
“Yes, but do you know how to make it?”
“It’s going to be a public restroom locator.”
“But how are you going to—
“Say you really need to pee,” it was like talking to a prerecorded message and hoping to interject an original thought, “but you have no idea where you can find a restroom. Our app will tell you where one is, Matthew. Isn’t that just fantastic?”
I opened my mouth to speak, but heard Jordan’s voice instead. I guess it was a rhetorical question.
“Look,” he said, “I have to go meet up with your brother and talk the whole thing over some more, but that won’t take long so promise me you’ll meet us at Harrington’s Pub in thirty minutes.”
I looked at Martha. Harrington’s didn’t serve food and that was currently an unattractive option even though we really did love the pub.
“I think we’re actually just going to get some dinner here,” I said, “We’re hungry and I have no interest in the app development game so—
“No, Matthew!” Jordan exclaimed. He reacted as though I’d just slapped a baby. “Harrington’s Pub. I’ll meet you there in a half an hour with your brother and he’ll convince you.”
“I really don’t—
“Here,” he whipped out a one hundred dollar bill and stuffed it in my hand.
“Where did you…”
“Go to the pub and have a few drinks on me.”
“Are…are you high?” I asked. He was behaving strangely. Even for Jordan.
“Like a kite,” he confirmed, “I’ll see you soon, Matthew. Harrington’s Pub. I’ll bring your brother.”
He raced off as he was speaking and each word took him further and further away until Martha and I stood alone in peace.
“Do you think he even saw me?” Martha asked.
“Anyone’s guess,” I replied.
We gazed at the cash in my hand and then at the restaurant.
“Well,” said Martha, “we haven’t seen your brother in quite a while.”
I laughed.
“Which one?”
“Either of them.”
“I’ve never been one to turn down free drinks,” I said.
“We can come back and grab some dinner after,” Martha proposed, “How long could it take anyway?”
“Depends on the brother,” I said.
I just realized that none of this really explains the nightmare scenario I described earlier. I guess I didn’t quite back up far enough so I’ll go back just the tiniest bit further. You see, what Martha had said was only half true. She hadn’t seen either of my brothers for a long time, but I had seen both of them earlier that day.
It’s important for you to know that I have two brothers. One is about a year and a half older than I am while the other is about six minutes younger. In case my younger brother’s age confuses you, I’ll just spell it out: we’re twins. And we have been ever since he was born.
Well, it was almost one o’clock in the afternoon and I was still stuck at my twin’s intervention. His name is Melvin and he has a gambling problem. His intervention had already been dragging on for over three hours with no headway and I was supposed to meet Martha for lunch in less than fifteen minutes. I could tell that wouldn’t be happening so I ducked out of the room for a moment to give Martha the heads up.
“Hello?” Martha said, “I’m on my way to the restaurant now.”
“That’s why I called, “I replied, “I’m not going to be able to make lunch like we planned. Things are taking much longer than expected.”
Martha didn’t respond for a moment and I checked to make sure I hadn’t lost the call.
“And you still can’t tell me where you are?” she asked after the lengthy pause, “Is everything okay? Should I be worried?”
“Only if I’m stuck here for too much longer,” I answered, “I’m starting to get pretty hungry.”
“I can hold off on lunch.”
“You don’t have to do that. Judging by the current state of affairs it could be a while yet.”
“That’s alright. I’ll just grab a snack and meet you for an early dinner.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Definitely,” Martha confirmed, “I’ll see you soon.”
“Okay then. Bye.”
We hung up and I returned to the taxing ordeal of intervening with my family on behalf of Melvin and his destructive lifestyle choices.
“You’re tearing the family apart,” sobbed my mother. Tears rolled down her cheeks and her mascara rolled down with them. My father’s stern expression drilled into Melvin’s soul. It filled me with deep remorse for things I had never even considered doing. I can only imagine what that brutalizing stare did to my poor twin brother.
“I won’t be lending you anymore money until you’ve sworn to me that this will no longer be an issue,” said my father with the conviction of a dogged doomsday preacher with a bullhorn on the corner of a busy intersection calling for repentance in the face of the fire and brimstone of God’s impending wrath. “I’m disappointed in you, Melvin. Disappointed.”
“Are we done here?” asked Jerry, my older brother.
“Not by a long shot,” said my father. He gave Jerry an equally withering glare as the one he’d given Melvin for the duration of the intervention.
“Shame, Jerry,” I said, “Melvin needs our help and all you can think about is yourself.”
Now, secretly I felt the same way Jerry did, but the look of supreme approval I received from my father for this act of betrayal confirmed to me that I made the right decision. Jerry disagreed. His crushed expression told me as much, but what did it matter? He was just being a poor sport.
The intervention waged on for another two hours and was about as productive as I expected it to be…which is to say, not at all productive. Nevertheless, by the end, Melvin swore never to touch a deck of cards again and we adjourned the intervention.
After a few brief hugs, handshakes, and goodbyes, I shot out of the house like a bat out of hell: a hungry bat headed for an all-you-can-eat mosquito buffet. As soon as I closed the door to my car, I revved my engine, pulled onto the road, and called Martha to tell her I was on my way.
“Now can you tell me where you’ve been?” she asked.
“No,” I replied, “but I can tell you that it was pointless.”
“I just don’t understand why…”
I guess you might be in the same boat as Martha at this juncture. Well, fine. I give in. I’ll back up one more time just so you can’t say I didn’t tell you everything pertinent to this story.
“‘Pet safety a rising local concern,’ Police Chief Henry Faust says,” Martha read aloud as I sipped the hot caffeinated beverage from my paper cup. “Following a series of goldfish and parakeet disappearances, Faust urges residents to maintain a vigilant watch. Law enforcement is feeling the pressure to act from both citizens and city officials alike.
“‘I want to be able to go to sleep at night and not worry if I forgot to lock the birdcage,’ says Sharron Stone, concerned local pet-owner. But despite the growing unrest, police are ill equipped to combat this epidemic.
“‘In light of this,’ Faust says, ‘it’s time for the city to give law enforcement agencies the tools we need to do our jobs.’ Faust also expressed his fears that the recent municipal scale backs and budget cuts could be devastating to the ability of the police force to keep the peace. Faust even suggested that some extremist pet-owning citizens might attempt to take the law into their own hands and administer vigilante—
“How is this news?” I couldn’t take it anymore. I didn’t want to spend our first free day together in weeks reading from a newspaper that would put the Energizer Bunny® to sleep.
“It really doesn’t seem like it should be, does it?” Martha replied. She looked at her watch. “It’s almost ten,” she said, “Do you want to get a late breakfast?”
“I think that is what they call ‘brunch,’” I joked.
“I don’t think it’s quite late enough for all that,” she laughed.
“Alright then,” I said, “Let’s go eat something.” I finished my coffee and we walked out the door. Almost as soon as we set foot outside my phone rang. Mom was calling me.
“Hi, Mom,” I said.
“Matthew,” she replied. It sounded like she might be crying. I started to worry.
“What is it? Is everything okay?”
“It’s your brother,” she said through a sob. Yes, she was definitely crying.
“Which one?” I asked.
“Melvin.”
The proverbial picture grew clearer. Melvin always seemed to be in some kind of trouble or other.
“What’s going on?”
“We’re having an intervention like they do on TV,” she said, “Please, come over as soon as possible and don’t tell anybody about it.”
“Nobody? Why?”
“Nobody. I don’t want the whole world finding out that Melvin’s a delinquent.”
I’m as certain as a rational human can be that the whole world had long been privy to Melvin’s delinquency, but I learned early on in life that arguing with my mother was only slightly less effective than trying to dig to China…with a spoon…without using your hands. So I gave up before I started in an effort to save time.
“Okay,” I said, “I’ll be there soon.”
“No late breakfast then?” said Martha as I pocketed my phone.
“I’m afraid not,” I replied, “I’ll just have to meet you for lunch.”
“When and where?”
“How about at Eddie’s Eatery? Around one or so?” I suggested.
“Sounds good to me,” Martha said, “Where are you off to now?”
“The house of my mistress,” I teased, “I’d completely forgotten that we had breakfast plans today.”
Martha punched my arm soft enough for me to know she was playing along, but hard enough to serve as a warning.
“I know you’re meeting your mom,” she said, “but why? What’s up?”
“I actually can’t tell you that,” I replied.
“Why not?” Martha pressed.
“Honestly,” I confided, “I’m not really sure, but my mom was pretty adamant.”
“Fine,” said Martha, though she seemed far from content with my answer, “I’ll see you at one then.”
I gave her a quick peck on the cheek and took off for the intervention.
Okay! Now you have all the information you need for the rest of the story to make sense. I can finally move forward and wrap this whole thing up. It’s become far longer than I initially expected.
As a drunkard, I clambered and stumbled away from the wrench-wielding mechanic in hot pursuit. Martha, apparently believing herself to be surrounded by a world on fire while she tripped hard on the LSD she had unwittingly imbibed back at the bar, ran after us with that fire extinguisher randomly putting out the imaginary flames that engulfed her drug-induced psychosis.
“I’m gonna get my money, Bob,” the mechanic shouted at me.
“I don’t know Bob,” I called back, “And I don’t know you.”
The mechanic gained swiftly on me. Damn those excessive shots! I would soon be beaten to a bloody pulp and all because of Elise’s shots. What’s worse is that it was probably all in vain anyway. I was all but absolutely certain Elise had already returned to the bar and was knocking them back…thereby rendering my heroic sacrifice meaningless. Being bludgeoned without mercy by a furious mechanic with a wrench would simply be the cherry atop this unfortunate sundae of disaster.
The closer the mechanic got, the more frantic I became until finally my failing motor skills offered up a total and unconditional surrender. I fell to the ground with a drunken gasp and spun around to face my doom. My body had given up and now lay in a heap awaiting the coming reckoning, but my mind and mouth still clung to the futile hope that by some miracle I might yet be spared the pain that was sure to befall once the mechanic reached me with his blunt, metal tool.
“Please, no!” I begged.
“I’ll give you one more chance,” the mechanic offered, “Give me the cash and I’ll let you go.”
“What cash?” I slurred. The mechanic raised his wrench to strike. “What cash!?”
“The cash Jerry swore you were good for,” said the mechanic.
“Jerry?” I asked, “Jerry who?”
“Braxton.”
“Wait, wait, wait.” I was dumbfounded…and very drunk. I needed gratuitous clarification. “Jerry Braxton told you I would give you money?” The mechanic nodded and was about to bring down his wrench in a swift display of misguided vigilante justice. “And you believed him?” The mechanic hesitated. “Explain to me what happened,” I said in a pitiful attempt to sound sober.
The mechanic lowered his wrench. Maybe he was a reasonable guy after all.
“Well,” he began, “earlier this afternoon I was playing a friendly game of cards with a couple a fellas—
“And one was named Jerry Braxton?”
“That’s right,” confirmed the mechanic.
“Go on,” I said. At this point Martha had passed us and ran around the street with no apparent method to the madness. She yelled and warned us of the fire while she hurriedly emptied the fire extinguisher of its contents.
“The other was a strange fella named Jordan Galloway.”
“This is,” I paused for the first of many incoming hiccups, “making more sense.”
“You know him?” asked the mechanic. I nodded.
“Go on,” I replied.
“Anyway,” the mechanic continued over Martha’s frenzied, albeit imaginary, fire fight. “We all played a few games of poker and I was doing good.”
“Well,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“You were doing well. Not good.”
“Do you want me to tell you my story or beat you senseless with my friend here?” He held up the wrench to drive his point home.
“Story,” I answered, “Always the story. Tell your friend to calm down.” I made a gesture that was intended to look like I was zipping my lips shut, but I ended up simply jabbing my cheek vigorously with an uncoordinated hand.
“Right,” said the mechanic, “As I was saying…I was doing good.” He made sure to put undue emphasis on the word “good.” The patronizing bastard. “I was doing a little too good, in fact. Jordan had folded so it was down to me and Jerry.” I wanted to correct the mechanic’s poor grammar again, but dared not risk the wrath of his unstable friend.
“I asked Jerry if he was good for the money because the bets were getting pretty high and he told me he was. We kept playing and he eventually won a lot of money from me. He demanded I pay up and, as I did, him and Jordan talked about restrooms and toilets and cellphones and whatever else.
“As soon as I had counted up the money, I handed it over, but wouldn’t you know it? Two cards fell out of his sleeve when he took it from me: a king and an ace. The son of bitch cheated so I told him to give my money back, but he threw it to Jordan who took off right away. Jerry tried to run too. I caught him. I said if he didn’t give me my money back I was gonna beat him up.
“Jerry begged me to let him go and grabbed a picture off the wall. It was a picture of you. He said that Jordan was bringing you the money and that you could return it to me. I’d heard them talking about Harrington’s Pub so that’s the first place I looked and there you were.
“So where is it?” The mechanic held out his free hand. “Where’s my money, Bob?”
“Why are you calling me Bob?” I asked.
“Jerry said your name was Bob,” replied the mechanic.
“My name is Matt,” I said, “Matt Braxton. Jerry’s younger brother. I’m afraid he lied to you.” I showed the mechanic my driver’s license. He looked me up and down as though he were a skeptical bartender on the lookout for mischievous minors and fake ID’s, but finally (and to my great relief) he believed me and left.
I watched him go and Martha walked over. She sat down by my side and sprayed the last of the fire extinguisher’s innards all over me.
“I didn’t see that coming,” she said, “Fortunately, I put out all the fires.”
“I’m still starving,” I said, drunk and unfazed, “Want to get some food?”
Martha nodded and helped me up. We went to the first restaurant we could find and gorged our poor, empty bellies until we were finally full. Food never tasted so much like heaven.
Oh, and the mechanic eventually found both Jerry and Jordan. They are still in the hospital. In addition, their restroom locator app was stolen and developed by the mechanic and he is now raking in the profits and living like a king in the Silicon Valley.
The End