Here's To You, Kid

Jamie’s bedroom was different than most kids'. And if that was not an analogy for his life, he didn’t know what was.

It was though the room was a sort of monstrous nostalgia mashup. Lined along the walls were pictures of figures whose heydays were past memories. The Beatles smiled charmingly from one corner, and Hendrix shredded at Woodstock on another. Elvis swung by his closet, and Jefferson Airplane stood in psychedelic colors over his bed. He found that one at a garage sale for five bucks, and Jamie considered it the best investment he ever made. In the closet by his turntable, his vinyls consisted of five decades broiled down to a single collection. All the new singles with synthesizers and love ballads and disco beats hurt his head.

All he cared about was the feeling. He would sit alone amongst these remnants and be transported to a different place, a different when. The air would grow sweeter but also more rancid, surrounded by all these bright colors and loud noises and long hair and baggy clothes and tight clothes and everyone just trying to live in the moment. The world where his friends were growing up would dissolve away, and everything would be simpler. Everyone had their purpose, individual or collective. Like everyone had a purpose in the books he read. If you didn’t have a meaning, man, you can find one and join in or you can drop right out.

He was safe there. He would drop the needle into a groove and listen and be taken back to another time and when he heard Mom call him down for dinner, he would come back and pull off the needle and walk straight through his door. It was one little interest that he kept to himself, and there were no concerns about him keeping only to himself.

That was the point: he kept it to himself. His friends were all great, and he knew some of them since they crapped in diapers together, but when he got home all defenses came down. Friends were like that in a way. No matter how close to them you become, there’s always a little part of yourself that you know is special; a little treat that keeps you different from the others. He could be someone and not worry about the ideas running through their heads or the comments regarding him. There were no judgements, good or bad. He only felt like this in two places: in his bedroom surrounded by these figures and, more-or-less so, the patch of woods Dad took him and Mark to for some late November hunting.

The former was where Jamie lay one summer afternoon, when the August sun was shining bright but had begun its descent down to the other side. His turntable was on and rolling, expelling the sounds of Hendrix proclaiming voodoo child-ism from the speakers. A passing figure or peeping Tom would tell he was already on his way out. His head moved slowly side to side to the rhythm of the beat, his hands laced together behind his head, and his eyes staring into the black recesses behind his shut eyelids. There was always a kind of dream-like trance to this interval, when he did not listen to the music but he felt it. Every chord moved him like a heartbeat in his chest; every note a miniscule shove against his core. It was every emotion a person experienced in picoseconds, and no moving thoughts in his head. The gears were shut down, but the valves kept pumping.

The drums only seemed to grow louder. But slowly the beat took on a corporal sound from his bedroom door, and he began to realize that someone was knocking. He forced his eyes to take in light from the darkness and stared at his door, not saying a word. Perhaps it was Mom telling him dinner was ready for the umpteenth time. He swung his feet off the bed and sat for a moment, waiting for the headrush to pass. When he regained conscious thought, he strolled to the doorway and opened it. He was already expecting to see the soft, aqualine face of his mother, until he realized it was only four o’clock and his mother had run to the store. The fact came to him when he was left staring at the harder face of Mark.

“Hey,” Mark said.

“Hey,” Jamie said back.

They may have been brothers by blood, but they were no more than acquaintances socially under their roof. Different interests, hobbies and an age gap of seven years pulled the two in disparate routes. Being a twelve year old as of a month ago, Jamie was quite slender for his age. Mark was much taller and robust than his younger brother and excelled more in physical ed. A good report card and casual smile don’t seem to get you much past the star running-back and tennis champ of Joseph McKennedy Collegiate & Vocational.

Jamie could get a clear view into Mark’s room from his doorway. What was usually left under bundles of clothes and gear and shelves of ribbons and medals was now occupied by boxes, boxes everywhere. His brother’s stellar runs and swift backhands had earned him a scholarship at some preppy college down in the states. The new semester began in less than a month, and Mark hadn’t known what he was going to do for travel. It was almost godsent when his friend Denny Chambers announced he was going to the same town but not the same college, and he was more than glad to take Mark and his stuff and share the trek with someone; Paradise & Moriarty part deux.

Mark gestured his hand inside Jamie’s room. “You mind if I come in and chat?”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s fine,” he said rather monotone. Mark squeezed past him into a room that was not like his own, and Jamie turned the player off. The low scratching noise cut, and away went Hendrix into the closet.

Mark stood with his hands tucked away in jean pockets. Jamie sat on his bed, waiting for him to say the first word or explain why he requested to talk. He also noticed Mark was wearing the thick plaid pullover he usually wore when they went hunting. Why he would choose to wear that in the middle of August was beyond him.

“What did you want to talk about?”

Mark shrugged his shoulders. “Mom told me to come in here. She wants me to talk to you. Her exact words.” He raised his finger and did a good impression of Betty Dunbar. “‘Go talk to your brother in his room. Time is gonna fly by and he’ll start moping around the house about you gone.’”

Jamie snickered. He could also see the both of them out in the woods together. It had only been his first trip a few months ago, but he recalled it with the fondness of an old man thinking of old times. The winters in the woodlands were pretty chilly, even by northern standards. The winds would be chilling their noses into Rudolph’s incandescent protuberance. Their fingers would go numb even through thick gloves. And Mark’s face would be focused, not twitching or moving behind the sight of his rifle and lit up by the bright orange stripes to prevent any accidents from happening. By nighttime it would be a total change of attitude, when he was smiling behind a half-drunk can of beer with the antique radio going.

The three of them would drive to the lodge, tossing their spare luggage in the room, gathering the ammo and rifles -

- and in no time there they were in the forest bundled up in their hunting gear in the same spot where memories had taken a previous setting. A mottled sun hidden behind funereal clouds still brightened the orange stripes across their vests given out on safety concerns. Dad laid on his stomach to Jamie’s left, and Mark the same on his right. Outside in this quiet wilderness, every little thing was calm at the moment.

No one spoke. The whistling in the tree branches were louder than the three Dunbar men on the ground. A squirm or a wiggle or the unclenching of a wedgie crunched the snow beneath them, and Mark had a habit of clicking his safety on and off that grated on Jamie’s nerves, but otherwise the natural world did not acknowledge their presence. A slab of snow fell from an evergreen tree in the distance, causing Jamie to jump from the suddenness like Cro-Magnons some ten thousand years ago, perhaps back when Europe was closer to the North Pole. But Mr. Mahoney’s class was far away from him, that and home and school and Brady and Hank and Ed and Gwen and everyone and everything else was far away from this moment, right now, right now was everything that made him feel safe and warm and coolheaded.

And then his excitement rushed through his blood into his vision, for he saw something from the tail of his eye. A small piece of brown was moving from tree to tree like a piece of clothing passed between brothers. The blob of color began taking on a form, a tail, a sleek clean body leading from a stocky neck, two deep black eyes and great big antlers sprouting from atop its head.

He peered through the sight, everything dark around the black circle lying on its target. He knew to grip the gun tight, in case the recoil sent the bullet flying and his kill would get away. The buck stood between two trees that joined at the roots, and split apart like nature was telling him where to shoot. His grip hardened, his tongue stuck from the corner of his mouth to feel the breeze, levelled the sight, and pulled the trigger once. A crisp shot rang out and was gone in five seconds. He heard the bullet strike because the buck kicked and cried out in a deep painful whinny. It was trying to bound away, its robust legs jumping over stumps and brush before it collapsed with a muffled crunch under the sounds of snapping branches.

On habit he pulled on the bolt handle. The cartridge ejected itself from the bolt and fell to the ground, a touch warm against his wrist.

“That’s my boy!” his father shouted beside him. “First shot and you took down a buck! My God, what a shot!” He was scrambling from their position and running over to see the shot. Heavy plumes flew from his nostrils and mouth.

When Jamie got up and walked over, he saw it had been a large buck. The animal had fallen on a soft mound of snow and landed at an awkward angle where its body was raised past its head. The antlers had dug themselves deep in the snow like drills, holding the head in a twisted position. By the way his father was gasping and laughing and patting him on the back, he thought he did pretty well for his first time.

It made the next part even better. Mark was now beside him, gazing at him holding the gun like a little kid playing Cowboys and Indians. He patted Jamie on the back and said exactly what he meant.

“I’m proud of you, kid.”

Mark was still laughing. He straightened up his posture and looked at him. His face radiated joy, but his eyes were sort of turned down.

He sighed. “Before the silence chokes us, I actually came with a reason. You might miss me when I’m gone - I don’t know if that’s true - but I got you something to remember me bye. Give me a second.” He walked out of the room with stride.

His brother came back almost as fast as he left, with all the confidence of someone who knows they are gonna blow away this person. He had a sly grin on his face, different from the usual big dumb smile he usually had. “Now close your eyes."

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“It’s that important?”

“It really is. Now close them yourself or I’m gonna make you. It’s your choice.” Jamie closed his eyes, eyebrows raised, and held out his hands cupped together. He was expecting something slimy or disgusting to be thrown in his hands, or even somewhere else. But something dropped into his hands. It was small and felt like cold metal. It was so miniscule to be anything super exciting.

“You can open them now.”

He did as was told and looked in his hands. Sitting in his palms was a small metal cartridge casing. It looked about as close to the album’s opposite as could be. It was beat up, old and dented. The copper shell had begun to dull with growing age. He looked up expecting to be laughed at for some strange joke he didn’t get, but Mark only looked at him with sincerity. There was no glee or comedy in his eyes, only anticipation. 

“Is this a joke I don’t get?”

He smiled. “Remember your first time hunting with me and Dad?”

“Yeah, vividly.”

“This is the shell from the bullet that killed your buck. I don’t know why I ever picked it up, but that day I thought you would have wanted it. So I picked it up and placed it in my pocket, and back in June I found it cleaning my closet out. I mean, it was your first kill.”

There was the start of something growing inside Jamie. Not exactly tears, but just a great satisfaction that rose in his chest. This little metal piece was better than any Dollar Store gift he could have bought.

“There’s something else on it, too. I did something to it in tech class. Turn it over.”

Jamie flipped it over. The casing was much brighter on this side, not completely shiny but buffed to a gleam. It was smooth under his fingers until he touched the etching on the side. He carefully read the looping letters.

The etching on the shell read Proud of you kid, and he felt a slow cracking in his heart.

He looked into Mark’s face.

Yes, they were separated by seven years of differences and growth. Yes, they did not speak much to each other because of those differences. But as Jamie looked at his brother, every detail and cranny etched in a face he knew for the past twelve years, something was beginning to dawn inside his head. He was no longer looking into the face of the great Football Player or Tennis Champ or the high-school Casanova; it was the face of an older brother. He was someone who had held him at the stroke of midnight when the nightmares woke up, sweaty and crying out for Mom when those arms reached around and held him until he fell asleep again. He was someone who called him Treetop when Jamie was little, and received names like Big Bird and Squawk in return and neither really cared. It was a person who cleaned him up and comforted him when he fell off his bike at the street corner and plastered Band-Aids over his knees and hands, holding him and letting the tears fall from Jamie’s cheeks into his shirt as they waited on the front step for Mom’s car to pull in. He had been so proud of him for taking down that buck, not just on one shot but on his first shot. Mark was someone he had never been absolutely comfortable around with, but he was someone who had always been there whether he knew it or not.

On impulse he opened his arms and hugged his brother. Not a flimsy one, no side hug that acquaintances give each other on habit; he wrapped his arms around Mark and squeezed. Tears were forcing their way through his eyes onto Mark’s shirt, like the day spent waiting for Mom on the front steps. He was ready to hear alright, close the water-works or watch the shirt. But Jamie felt those arms close around his back, and they stood there for what seemed like years.

He was the first to break away. “I’m really gonna miss you. I hope you know that.”

“Don’t worry, I know. I’m gonna miss you too. You and Mom and Dad and everyone else on this block and in this town. And even if we only went one year together, I’ll miss the hunting trips.”

Jamie smiled. “Mom should have come once in a while. But if she ever saw me hold a gun she’d probably drop from a heart attack.”

A small chuckle danced from Mark’s lips. “Write to me when you get the chance. You better remember that or else I’ll think you’re doing the pills.”

His brother left Jamie’s room and shut the door behind him. Jamie paced the room with thoughts circling his head, and took as much time as he wanted.

And when the day came, when the car drove down Amburg Street and Mark waved through the rearview mirror, Jamie stood on the front lawn and waved back.