A Plastic Pause

Connor stared at the humongous fish tank that severed the restaurant in two.

A small treasure chest overfilled with bubbles, each rising to the surface to die. And as he watched a small school of neon tetras glide by aimlessly, Connor silently acknowledged that he would give anything to swim through the synthetic tendrils of plastic seaweed.

"Do you even hear what I'm saying?" Michael asked. "Cause I'll tell you what, Con, you're running out of time, and the answer is sure as hell not in that tank."

Connor wished the answer was in the tank, buried under fish shit and gravel.

His older brother Mike meant well, but the conversation was going to result in nothing more than rows of neatly arranged sugar packets, tiny anthills of salt, and a better understanding of contained aquatics.

The decision was simply too big for one person to make. But it was his call and his alone, a silent and suffocating albatross that was as much his own as the double helix that gave him green eyes.

Connor's mind raced, weighing countless solutions to an impossible equation. He longed to return to the simplicity of childhood when Mike's watchful eye was enough to keep the monsters at bay. 

Throughout their childhood, Mike had always kept a watchful eye on Con while their parents encased themselves in selfish bubbles that floated in opposite directions. By no means was he a surrogate father, but Mike was there without fail when it counted the most. 

Like the time John Tsopalis shoved Connor's floral baseball hat into the big blue mailbox like a second-class letter, only to show up the next day with a gash on his face. 

Or when Nellie Smythe broke Connor's heart for the third time, and Mike took him to the batting cage, where they feasted on pizza squares and an ice-cold pitcher of Killian's Red. 

He hated having to do this. The gratitude and guilt mixed together like chicken and broccoli. The gravy-soaked white rice heavy on the fork, mirroring Connor's apprehension.

The waiter, with a face that looked like he had been a waiter for 60 years, sauntered over to the rickety plastic table that was desperately masquerading as wood and announced that the pair looked like they could use some dessert. 

Connor needed a lot more than that.

Sleep, mostly. And for this to be over.

Nights stretched endlessly, his mind a runaway carousel of what-ifs. Daylight hours spun like a top, too, leaving him dizzy and disoriented. His appetite replaced by an anxious wave crashing him crazy from the inside out.

"Why not try our new dessert bento box with sweet coconut sushi rice, candied wasabi, ginger –"

"No thanks," Mike snapped, instantly realizing that the waiter was taking his words way too personally.

"I think we're cool, right Con?"

"Yeah. We'll just take the check, please."

And like a tired magician, the waiter pulled the bill from behind his back, some chocolate-covered fortune cookies from his front, and placed them in the center of the table, muttering something about how he hopes the gentlemen dine with them again.

Connor paid; it was the least he could do.

As they rose to leave, the unfinished conversation hung between them like a wet curtain. The brothers navigated the maze of tables in tense silence, each step potentially bringing them closer to the inevitable confrontation.

"Goodbye, tetras," Connor whispered.

Mike struggled against the wind to open the trembling restaurant door, and when he finally did, it was worth the fight. The autumn air had prematurely evolved to winter chill status as if it had missed the message that Halloween had yet to pass. After sitting in the stifling restaurant for more than two hours waiting for a response from his younger brother, Mike's clenched jaw, deep crow's feet, and white knuckles told the story. He was pissed.

"Wow, by the time you finally give me an answer, it'll be the fucking dead of winter," he said as he kicked some crushed grey rocks into the air.

Michael and Connor both knew this was by far the toughest decision they would ever have to make, and the pressure that consumed them, projected on one another. Their individual frustrations boiled over and foamed down to the pilot light, where every ounce of anger corralled into a reservoir that begged for release. Connor, with his hand on the valve, knew this was no different than open-heart surgery; likely a success, but glaring with the indistinct risks and uncertainties that each patient brought to the surgical table.

"Feel that?" asked Mike. "Even the wind has had enough of your indecision."

The turbulent air shook the little Honda with the rusted bumper and rocked it back and forth like a clueless first-time dad trying to get his son down for the night. Connor was not only contending with his older brother for an answer, but the elements were also soliciting for closure. 

Even though they weren't speaking, the rattle and hum of the car, coupled with the fiercest winds either of them could recall, filled the space with a solid and persistent sound. The faint smell of fried noodles and old tea unwelcome passengers.

A large plastic garbage can clumsily tumbled into the middle of the road and stopped the brothers dead in their tracks. The blue Rubbermaid with the "Please Recycle" sticker stared the Honda down. 

The trees continued to shake and wobble as yellowish-orange leaves accumulated on the cold hard pavement. Streetlights swayed like hammocks as red and green trails of light offered the opportunity to neither stop nor go. The world was twirling as they sat suspended, waiting for the garbage can to blow out of their way. Traffic flowed all around, except for the two young men who managed to get themselves in a one-car jam. 

The standoff between plastic and man froze time just long enough. 

Connor knew what he had to do. Life for him and Mike would never be the same.