Listen, Brother

 This was the 4^th time the same unknown number had called Nick’s cell phone, all within the past 30 minutes. Instead of ignoring it again or trusting his gut and blocking it, Nick answered, “What do you want? Who is this?”

A high-pitched male voice replied, “Ah! I have finally reached you!” He had a very thick middle eastern accent. “You have to pardon me brother, English is not my first language. You see, I had to immigrate here 5 years ago when—”

“I don’t care. What do you want? Why do you keep calling me?”

“Oh! Yes, brother, I am sorry. You must pardon me, brother, I get so carried away.”

Nick blinked hard, holding his eyelids closed as he let out a deep exhale through his flared nostrils.

The caller continued, “I have something extremely important to tell you, brother. Is this… Is this Nickolas Sand… Sand Oval?”

“Sanduval? San-doovall?”

“Yes, yes, Doovall! I do apologize, my friend, my English is ehhh… Not so good.”

“What’s so important, then? I have a lot to do, so hurry it up.”

“Yes, brother! Of course, of course. I will be brief. My son (he is a fool, you must understand), he found a photograph of you on the internet and he, he used it! Yes, he used it as his own ehhh… Profile image! Yes! He used your identity as him! And people on the internet, they believe it, they believe that you are him!

Nick squinted, his eyes ricocheted side to side like he was watching a game of tennis. “That’s it? That’s the emergency?”

“Yes!” shouted the caller. “He is such a fool, such an ungrateful child!”

“Well, no, that’s… That’s pretty tame. So what, he found a random picture online and uses it on his profile that only his friends see? So what?”

“You are not angry?”

“No, not at all. It’s on the internet, there’s nothing I can do about it. Besides, when I was a kid, I remember all sorts of people using other people’s pictures for their gaming profiles and stuff like that. I think I used to have a Morgan Freeman picture as mine... Anyway, my point is that it’s all just harmless fun — weird, but harmless. I get it though. Let the kid enjoy himself, I don’t mind.”

“No brother, you don’t understand! Morgan Freeman, he is famous; people know who he is. You, though... No one knows. You are a nobody, yes?”

“A nobody?” Nick pulled his phone off of his ear and stared at it with disgust before putting it back in place. His tone was stern, “Are we done here?”

“No! Brother, listen, listen! My son is saying he is you. He uses your photograph, do you understand?”

“Yeah, I understand. I understand better than you ever will. I don’t care that he uses my picture, I don’t! It’s my fault for putting it out there, or my friend’s fault, or whoever did it, but don’t be mad at your son for doing something that a lot of other people do. I appreciate you letting me know, but I genuinely don’t care. Alright, I gotta go now.”

“Wait! Wai—”

---

Nick tossed his phone to the other end of the couch. He leaned forward to grab the TV remote off of the coffee table in front of him when his phone started to vibrate again. He froze.

The phone’s mellow rumbling reverberated throughout the entire couch, turning it into something of a massage chair on its last breath. Nick waited, paralyzed but breathing heavily. The phone buzzed and buzzed, seemingly getting angrier with each vibration until… It stopped. All was silent. Nick didn’t take his eyes off the phone while he resumed his original action, grabbing the remote then reclining back into the still couch.

Once in place, he relaxed and aimed the remote at his television. Before he could press the power button, though, his phone buzzed itself back to life, and then... it stopped. Just one vibration. A message or notification, something important perhaps? Nick lowered the remote then rocked his body sideways to grab the phone the same way a baseball player stretches to catch a flying ball. He powered it on and was greeted with a text message and two missed calls, all from the same number.

Nick barely made out the first word of the message when the number called yet again. Nick answered almost immediately, “Dude, what’s your problem?”

The same high-pitch voice from before replied, “Brother, Mr. San-doovall, you must listen to me!”

“What? Say it already.”

“Brother, this is of the utmost importance!”

“WHAT?”, Nick enunciated exaggeratedly.

“Brother! My son, my foolish son, is using your photograph. On the internet! He says he is you!”

“I don't care!”

“No, brother, you have to listen! My son is using your photograph, do you understand? Your photograph and he is not you! He is so foolish, so, ehhh... so angry!”

Nick extended his arm straight outwards and threw his head back. He yelled firmly and clearly, “I DON’T CARE, DO NOT CALL THIS NUMBER!”, then he hung up.

He nearly tossed his phone back to the other end of the couch, but he stopped himself. Turning his phone on again, he selected all of the calls and messages from the high-pitched man, all but one, and deleted them. He used the remaining notification to block the number. Seemingly satisfied, he set his phone down, turned on the TV, then melted into the couch.

---

Nick’s weekend was relaxing, albeit uneventful. No more mysterious calls or yelling, just a few chores: laundry, rolling out the garbage bins, and a light shopping trip. Monday was nearly 8 hours old when Nick left his house. He rarely ate breakfast on work days, but this Monday, he made an impromptu stop at a fast food drive-through on his way to the office. He didn’t order anything too fancy, just an orange juice and a few hash browns, but it still proved to be a nice start to the week.

The open layout of the office provided ample opportunity for interaction and communication, although most of the employees would argue that the opportunities were too ample — headphones and makeshift dividers were not an uncommon sight. Regardless, the office was a steady career that paid fairly well. For a man like Nickolas, one with few financial requirements, no hobbies, and a lot of free time, it was the perfect job.

He arrived a few minutes late. All of his fellow workers were at their respective stations, either preparing for their tasks or already chipping away at them. Nick acknowledged no one just as none of them acknowledged him. He set his bags and orange juice down then settled in for the dull day ahead.

---

About 2 hours into his shift, the office’s receptionist appeared behind Nick. She leaned down next to him and whispered, “Nick, you have a call. I forwarded it to Victor’s office, he’s not in today so his room’s clear.”

Nick spun his chair around to face her, she stood up straight and took a step back. Nick whispered back, “Who’s it from? Can you forward it to my phone, please?”

“No, it’s…” she looked around the office then continued in an even quieter voice, “It’s an emergency. They seemed pretty worked up, you probably want to have it in private.”

“An emergency? About what?” Nick got up from his seat. A few coworkers started looking over at him.

“I – I don’t know. I heard him say it was an emergency, then he started shouting. I couldn’t really make out what he wanted… Here, this way.”

They walked together down a hallway lined with heavy, wooden doors on both sides. Looking as if she chose one at random, the receptionist stopped and opened one. She motioned Nick inside to the empty room.

“It’s on the table, there… I’ll leave you be, take your time.” She closed the door as if she was avoiding waking a sleeping baby.

The small, square room was extremely bland. The walls were a disgusting beige/off-white color, the same color a pure white wall would take on if the room it was built in was inhabited by a smoker for 50 years — like it was painted with a thin film of old nicotine. The unfortunate thing is the room’s walls weren’t this color due to age or outside influence, the color was deliberately chosen just for this part of the office. The even worse part is that this room specifically was remodeled a little less than 2 years prior.

The upside, however, is that the walls matched the rest of the room. Walking over sharp burning rocks was a more pleasant experience than it was to tread on top of the cheap, stiff carpet squares that lined the floor. The ceiling was covered in melancholy fiberboard tiles and migraine-inducing fluorescent lights. The entire aesthetic was soul-sucking, to say the least.

Nick picked up the phone, “Hello?”

“Brother, it is you!” replied a high-pitch man with a thick middle eastern accent.

Every ounce of liveliness evaporated from Nick’s being. His chest inflated then relaxed to a slow and steady beat. He whispered under his breath, “No…”, as the caller continued.

“Brother! Please, listen! My foolish, ungrateful son has committed an unforgivable act!”

“I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care…”

“No brother, you must listen — you must! My son has used your photograph to be him on the internet and to do his actions!”

Nick shook his head, “I don’t care! And you listen: You need to stop contacting me, or else I will report you to the police for harassment. You will go to jail, do you get that? STOP CALLING ME.”

“No! Brother, sir, I am to apologize to you, do you understand?”

“Do YOU understand?! You are going to go to jail. Leave me alone!”

“My son, he is, he is so… ehhhh… how do you say? Loud! Yes, he is so loud. And he is so bad with the people on the internet. Angry, he is so angry! Do you understand? He talks to people on the internet, all sorts of people, and then he uses your photograph. Yes, he says he is you when he does this.”

Nick moved the telephone’s receiver so close to his mouth, he was practically kissing it. He yelled but made an effort not to scream, “STOP. CALLING. ME!” then he slammed the handset down and walked out of the room without closing the door.

Before returning to his desk, he stopped in the bathroom. Leaning over the sink, he examined himself in the mirror. His face was red, but he didn’t appear to be too disgruntled or abnormal from his usual self. He washed his hands, took a deep breath, then exited the restroom. The receptionist was walking down the hall at the same time Nick merged into it.

“Is everything OK?” she asked. Her head was tilted and her eyebrows furrowed.

Nick was wiping his newly washed hands along his pants. When he replied, he didn’t look at the receptionist, just towards her, “Yeah, it’s… It’s all good.” Then he turned away to head back to his desk, but the receptionist started to say something so he stopped.

“Do you need to leave?” she asked.

“Leave? Oh, no. It wasn’t an emergency, just… Yeah, nothing important.”

The receptionist nodded her head then looked down. “Alright then.” Nick nodded back then left for his desk.

---

It was dark when Nick returned home. He parked in his attached garage then, per his routine, walked down to his mailbox at the end of his driveway. There were four items in the box, three were obvious junk mail, but the fourth caught Nick’s eye. It was a plain envelope with Nick’s address and the other mailing information all written in pen. Nick opened it.

Inside was a handwritten letter on a sheet of wide-ruled notebook paper. There was no date, signature, or even a salutation, just one long paragraph poorly scribbled in all capital letters. The first line read, “BROTHER LISTEN. MY SON HAS MADE A BAD MISTAKE”. Nick stopped reading immediately, then he crumpled up the letter and envelope with the rest of the mail and threw them all away into the garbage bin sitting by the curb just a few feet away. He grabbed the bin and walked it up to his open garage door, then he turned back down the driveway for the next one.

In the bushes, just around the corner of the garage, was a young man with long unwashed hair. There were empty food packages, litter, and even feces scattered around him. He watched Nick walk the last bin up the driveway, then the stranger looked down at a black and white printed sheet of paper. On it was an old picture of Nick along with various addresses, names, phone numbers, and an assortment of scribbles and vile doodles drawn in pencil. He looked back up at Nick who was entering his house.

The garage door was lowering down like a rambunctious piece of machinery from the Industrial Revolution, creaking, shaking, and grunting with each inch traveled. The stranger grabbed a small item wrapped in a pillow case, then he slunk out from the bushes and rushed quietly under the closing garage door, narrowly missing the safety sensor. With one loud ‘cachunk’, the door slammed to a halt. The house was sealed.