Inheriting It
by Garrett Crowe
I have to call an 800 number cause my father’s oxygen machine starts buzzing. Lights go red. The whole alert. My father tells me he thinks the machine has “blown a rod.” He’s just breathing tube-air. Turns out, the machine’s been acting this way for weeks. My stepmom hasn’t done a thing except power the machine off, then power it back on, she’s fighting her own cancer, has her own cigs to smoke. My brother is nowhere to be found. And my father assures me he’s breathing just fine, even when his oxygen machine whines in a high-pitched frequency. I eventually track down a service.
I don’t use my accent—speak real proper, real educated—and eventually get ahold of someone who’s willing to meet me halfway to swap out machines.
I technically own a vehicle. Registered in my name, paid for and pink slipped. Left it here when I moved to New York City eighteen months ago. You might not believe me, but my car is cherry. A late-model Dodge Challenger. Matte-black paintjob, chrome wheels, lots of muscle. I bought it after my first good lick of cash—a contract from a private southern university to spruce up their digital image. Steak days, baby, I had to have me a hot rod. My father sure was proud. I even drove my stepmom to town a couple times. Mashed it to 95 miles per just to scare her a tad. The car gave me style. I snagged more contracts and an eventual offer to work in Manhattan. At this moment, I have no clue where my car is. My brother has it.
***
We live real deep in the country. And yeah, it’s Christmas Day but this is not a Christmas story. My family doesn’t do the holiday. No trees. No baby Jesus. We don’t exchange gifts. I have to borrow my stepmother’s van for crying out loud. An hour and a half later, I meet a funny-looking green hatchback in the closest town, 25 miles away. This saint of oxygen drove from the closest city, 50 miles away. I expect someone with sideburns to be its driver, a bachelor-looking guy or something. Instead a middle-aged woman steps out. Cropped hair, a little frumpy, she reminds me of an aunt I never had. The aunt you only see on holidays.
We swap simple pleasantries before she totes out the brand-new oxygen machine from her car. She makes sure I know how to operate the machine, gives me a quick rundown of what the dials mean, where to connect the cannulas and tubing. I grab a couple of portable H2O tanks for the road as well. She makes me sign a form that insures her OT-holiday pay. I thank her so much for meeting me on Christmas. I’ll never forget it.
“Folks need their oxygen, no matter what day it is,” she says and hops in her ugly hatchback and heads out.
When I finally make it home, dad rips through a couple of Pall Malls as I hook up the new machine. The irony is just too fucking much.
***
I flew into Tennessee from New York City on Christmas Eve-Eve. Now it’s the thirteenth of January. My folks are surprised I’ve stayed this long. They ask, “When you going back? When’s your next job?”
Truth is: I don’t have a clue. I’m broke. Dumped all my money into a cryptocoin system called Brickca$h. “The future of currency,” my old friend Lopez told me. He takes the blame—here, now, and forever. I invested most of my money into it. And six months later, the crypto-market dropped into the darkest void. Brickca$h will probably never climb out. What a hustle. The future of currency is always gold and silver.
I only brought a suitcase and a pair of black boots with me to Tennessee. I have more belongings. I own two DSLR cameras, some shotgun microphones, a Tascam recorder, gigbags, tripods, multiple computers with powerful software, and a 48” flat screen. But I don’t even know how long I can keep paying the storage bill in Manhattan. Space is premium. I could lose it all if I’m not careful. It keeps me awake at night—owning things.
***
“What the hell am I supposed to drive here?” I ask my father.
“You the one loant your car to him,” he says between a fit, dry hacking until something wet is formed. My father spits it out in a napkin. This house is never quiet. Television always on. His machine always pumping oxygen. Always a churning, in and out, the mechanical breath. Always tubes laced around his face. Always coughing and reaching for air.
“Where is he?” I ask.
“I reckon he’s got a girlfriend in Jackson.”
“Yeah?” I say. “Girlfriends come in flocks when you got a cool ride to cruise around in.”
I haven’t seen my brother since I’ve been home. He’s 12 years my younger. We share the same father; his momma is my stepmother. By the time he was conscious enough to hold decent conversation I’d already left for college in Memphis. When I think of my brother now, I still imagine him as the kid I used to buy skateboards for and watch pro-wrestling with. Now he’s 21 and driving my hot rod.
My father says, “I don’t know why you don’t just drive the farmtruck,” grunting in between sentences. “It’s your inheritance anyway. A good ol truck. Lots of power too. Gets up and goes.”
“Maybe.” Truth be, I hadn’t thought about that. The farmtruck rested underneath a makeshift shed out in the pasture.
A smile forms on my father’s face. “Well, reckon you can keep putting around in your stepmom’s van until your brother comes around.”
“Jesus, where’re the keys?” I ask.
***
He has spoken about my inheritance ever since I can remember. Through the years, I’ve been in line to inherit all kinds of things: antique vehicles, firearms, nice guitars, ATVs, and even property at one time. But somehow my inheritance was always sold, lost, or bartered away. I gave up on inheriting anything years and years ago.
But the farmtruck was a different story. My father bought it from my papaw when he was still living. It’s an ‘89 Chevy. 350 engine. Boxy as hell. A moody blue paintjob that needs a good buff.
Dust explodes around me when I pull the covering off the truck. I kick the tires. They need air. The interior looks like a drug bust. I release the hood, and there’s a dauber nest in the manifold. The truck doesn’t start. I ask my stepmother to jump me off with the van. When I finally get the farmtruck to crank, it’s an honest sound, a fine pulse. Okay then.
***
My cell rings that Friday afternoon, a local number I don’t know. I still answer though.
“Hey brother,” the voice on the line says. “You in town?”
“Been here for almost a month,” I say. “Where you?”
“Floating around.”
“Floating around.”
My brother laughs. “Hey, why don’t you come by the Tap tonight?”
“The Tap? What’s that about?”
“Just a little spot in Jackson. Live bands. Pool tables. Across the street from the K-Mart. Can’t miss it.”
“How you figure I’m gonna get there? You have my car,” I say.
Without missing a beat, my brother goes, “Ain’t you driving the farmtruck right now?” He’s been talking to his mother. I tell him I’ll see him tonight.
“Can’t wait to see you, brother,” he says. His tone reminds me of a seven year old who wanted all of his older brother’s attention back in the day.
***
In New York, I dreamt about my brother often. I walked down an empty avenue at night. No one strolled the streets except me—no homeless or crazies, no food trucks or magazine carts. However, there were several taxis with high-beams on, and those beams glinted off the streets and skyscrapers. Finally something else walked the sidewalk, a silhouette strolling from the opposite direction. When I stopped walking, the silhouette stopped. When I stepped forward, so did the silhouette. It was the same height as me. We stared at each other until I waved my hand and said Hello. It mirrored my movement and said, Hey, brother. It was a shadow waiting for me to come forward. Another taxi came along on the street and honked its horn to pick us both up. And then I woke.
***
“Guess I’m going to Jackson tonight,” I say.
My father and stepmother rest on the couch watching television, watching their realities—home and garage restoration. The volume is loud and drowns out the noise of the oxygen machine. I tell them I’m meeting with my brother.
“Would you please tell him to visit soon?” my stepmother says.
My father says, “You be careful getting to Jackson from here. Those roads are dangerous.” He sucks in more oxygen. He’s warned me about driving on country roads since I can remember. I guess he thinks I forgot how to drive during my tenure in New York City. He goes on, “The farmtruck’s front-end is way heavier than the ass-end, son. Let off the gas on them curves.”
I do as he says and drive carefully down roads called Tally Store and Boss Laney. The farmtruck runs smoothly now that I’ve tinkered with it for the past week. The heater still doesn’t work. I try to find a classic rock station, but there’s only gospel and country. Forget it. Just give me silence. The roads aren’t so bad. I let the farmtruck loose on the main highway. I push it past the speed limit no problem. I haven’t forgotten how to drive.
At the Tap, I park the farmtruck next to the Challenger, giving the car a quick exam. My brother has taken good care of it. No scratches, no dings. The wheels shine. The interior slick and clean. I bet he changes the oil himself.
The Tap is disorienting. Its interior wood paneling reminds of a doublewide-trailer. Tables are made from particle board. A band sets up their equipment, while drill-rap plays through the speakers. Most everyone here looks like they work in the sun all day and never apply moisturizer. My brother sits on a stool at the bar.
From behind, I grab his shoulder and say, “Hey buddy.”
We hug awkwardly.
“Good to see you,” he says, wearing a baseball cap, the bill folded to his temples. He’s trying to grow a beard but it’s sorry. He tells me he’s been meaning to buy a plane ticket to New York. I wince when he mentions the city. I miss it and wonder if I’ll ever get back to the boroughs and endless avenue blocks. I even miss riding the nasty train.
We order a beer and shot. My brother tells me he works freelance construction every now and then. He’s dating a gal named Rita who lives in north Jackson.
“Where were you on Christmas?” I ask. “Dad’s oxygen broke down. Where you been, dude? All through Christmas, they were missing you.”
He does one of those laughing-grunts, the same our father uses. “Dad don’t care to see me. And I don’t care to see him. Grumpy-ass, just smoking cigarettes and breathing through a machine all day. Tethered to a tube. Telling people what to do. No, I don’t care to see it.”
“Well, I needed you,” I say.
We get another shot and beer. I loosen up as we play a round of pool. We start having a good time, cutting up. I decide to keep drinking. My brother whips me at the pool table. He tells me it’s fine, that he’ll drive us home. I order another, and that’s where things start to really blur. My pool game is completely busted at this point. Some guy tells us he’s got the next rack. My brother says, “Well, you gotta beat me to get this table,” and I’m not really sure why my brother marks this table as territory, but okay. He plays the guy and completely whips him too, sinking stripe after stripe with geometry and physics. I watch through the smoke of a hundred cigs. The oxygen here is rank. The live band starts playing original numbers, and I just don’t understand their style. The guy wants to play my brother again. He’s a hick with a thick chest. His shirt advertises a BBQ joint. There’s something off about him. He chalks his stick for too long. They play once more. My brother gives no mercy. The balls rattle off like gunshots until the 8ball finally sinks into its grave. Before I know it, my brother and his opponent are in each other’s faces. They’re screaming “No! Yes! To hell with you!” Things are happening fast. I don’t get it. They haven’t even bet money. The bartender is busy serving other patrons. I look for a bouncer who can break up the tension. No one comes. A bottle breaks against the wall. My brother suddenly gets suckerpunched. I come from behind and throw our opponent to the ground. I lock eyes with the stupid hick as he hits the floor. I see primal fear and confusion in his eyes, like a spotlit fawn. It freaks me out. Then without warning my brother takes the butt-end of his stick and jabs the fucker’s face multiple times, yelling, “Suckerpunch me? Suckerpunch me?”
Screams from everywhere pierce the Tap. And that’s all I remember for a while cause I, myself, am knocked silly by a random punch thrown to the back of my skull.
***
I stop seeing pink stars in the Challenger. My head still hurts. I am still very unsober. My brother is behind the wheel. We watch for blue lights in the rear-view mirror. Nothing. Nobody. Except my little brother controlling the highway all the way back home. A huge smile on his face, he beats into the wheel with his hands. He says, “That sure was fun! They can’t stand when we’re winning, boy!”
I agree and stomp my feet into the floorboard, laughing like a madman, suddenly exhilarated by the violence of it all. I turn on the radio and find a good station. We sing along to Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers. Tom Petty rocks! My brother puts the hammer down, and the Challenger grips the curves of Tally Store Road for distances and distances.
***
I wake up on the couch, but my brother’s gone. So is my car. My head feels sucked of every molecule. And I have to ask my stepmom to take me back to Jackson, so I can pick up the farmtruck—my inheritance—from the Tap parking lot. We ride together in her van. It’s awkward all the way. We just don’t have much to say to one another.
***
Weeks pass. I’ve been home for two months. I’m at my end.
I don’t know what makes me do it, but I pray one night. I actually kneel at the foot of the twin bed. In complete darkness. In this bedroom. Timidly, I ask Whoever to please forgive my trespasses. I also ask Whoever to forgive those who’ve trespassed me. I pray for my father, my brother, and my stepmother. I tell Whoever that I hope they hear my solemn requests amongst all the other noise—the machines and televisions, the loud barrooms, the loud engines. I tell Whoever that I don’t want to care about the material things we’re forced to care about in this world anymore. I just want to be a vessel for kindness. I just want everyone’s needless suffering to stop. Amen.
And the prayer somehow works. A few days later, I receive a call from my old New York pal Lopez. A real energy in his voice, he says he knows of a producer gig for an old client. He tells me the job starts in April. The contract is legit. Lopez wants me to lead. “I need you in Brooklyn,” he says. “Get your equipments out of storage, bro.” Lopez tells me there’s still hope for Brickca$h too, the cryptocurrency that I gambled on in the past.
I say, “Sure, buddy. See you in the city.”
***
At dinner, dad claims he’s cutting back on the cigs. My stepmother prepared a damn good meal of red-pepper pork chops and fried potatoes. It’s a Saturday evening, and we eat and watch reality television together. I’m leaving home in less than 48 hours.
In between breaths, my dad reminds me often that he’ll miss me.
“And I’ll miss y’all,” I say, dozing off on the couch, belly full from my stepmother’s dinner. I feel very warm and cozy. Is there any happier form of rest?
When I wake, I’m alone in the living room. The television turned off. It’s after midnight. My folks have gone to bed. Everything is quiet for once. Except my cellphone rings. It’s my brother. I answer and hear a number of voices in the background, some drunken yelling.
“Can you get here soon?” my brother asks, his words slurred.
“What? Where?”
“Ye Olde Tap,” he says. “Rita kicked me out. I’ve had too many and suddenly enemies have appeared.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He’s wearing an eyepatch now,” my brother says, referring to the guy he bar-fought a few weeks ago. He continues, “This asshole has a lot of friends supposedly. The bartender says he can’t guarantee my safety. I’m only carrying a little ol pocket knife.”
“Call a car, man!”
He doesn’t reply. Taxis don’t exist in little Tennessee towns.
“Alright,” I say. “Hang tight. Cross the street and visit K-Mart. Hide in the bathroom. Do something. I’ll be right there.”
“Love you, brother,” he says. God, he’s really drunk.
The farmtruck thunders to life, and I riproar out the driveway. The yellow lines on the road string along as I gain speed. The farmtruck is no joke. Not only can it haul barbed wire, hay, and feed, it also hauls ass. The treeline blurs as the roads twist. I take them with authority, not letting off the gas, not braking at all. Then I hit a real curve, and the farmtruck does something I’ve never felt before. It gets out from under me (remembering what my father always said: on curves, the front-end heavy, the ass-end light).
I fishtail, making things worse. Country roads backward and forwards. The sky navy blue. The radio’s off. The farmtruck continues to spin off-road, tires raking up loose dirt. Time slows and images flash onto the lattice of my mind. My father and stepmother sleeping peacefully with one another in their bed. My brother miles away waiting for me in a parking lot. The Challenger sparkling under the street lights. I also see a utility pole ahead, carrying only electricity and power. I’m still trying to take control here, but I know exactly where my inheritance is going.
Garrett Crowe was born and raised in Tennessee. He currently lives in New York City and works as an audio editor. He recently completed his first novel.
Image source: Moo Shua/Unsplash
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