NOVEMBER 2008

 ABOUT   ARCHIVES   AWARDS   LINKS   SUBMIT   HOME

Attending
By Nathan Leslie, Sep 01, 2008

It’s not that I worry about my brother’s survival. He’s just different. But I do worry about how others take Eddie. My head is still on straight.

I drive over to the Hess station where Eddie still works. The year we both graduated high school Eddie started working at this station. Back then it was Carl and Bob’s fill-er-up. Then some local chain bought it out. A few years later the Hess people snapped it up. Eddie’s managers all loved him, so he stayed on. Eddie makes ten thirty-five an hour now. Seniority. This is a high salary for a gas station attendant, Eddie tells me.

Eddie puts down his copy of some thick novel. The title is brothers something or other. It looks like it will take him all year to finish that one. He shrugs and rubs his puffy eyes. From the looks of his pupils, Eddie hasn’t seen the sun in weeks. I wonder if he glows in the dark like those deep sea fish.

“I’ve been on it for a few days,” he says. “This is my last Dostoevsky though. Then I’m finished with everything the man wrote. Think about it—a man’s whole life.”

I don’t know who this Do-sto-whoever is, but it sounds like a waste of time. Eddie’s always had his nose in the books, and what has it gotten him? This: some fat blob behind me raking nachos from the lamp heat-box thing, fluorescent lights, someone strumming a guitar slowly on the speaker, some stupid hillbilly music. The whole quickie-mart smells like preservatives, Freon, ketchup, and cheap lemon-scented cleaner.

“Yeah, look Eddie. How about you and me heading over to the career center at the college?” I say. “How about tomorrow? Maybe the next day?” I tell him how it’s for Mom, not for me. Now that Dad has retired, she’s the one worried about money.

“Money, I’m okay for cash,” he says. Eddie mumbles something about never begging. It’s true. Even though he still works this shitty job, Eddie is, I guess, somewhat self-sufficient, and he has never asked for handouts. The problem, I tell him, is that he’s thirty-four years old. I’m thirty-two and have made more money than him from the day I walked off the campus of UVA, business degree in hand. In the first year after college I probably made more money than he did in his lifetime.

“Mom thinks you can do better for yourself,” I say. “I mean, Ed, have you ever thought about a retirement plan? What’s Hess going to do for you?”

Eddie glances out the window. A car just pulled up to pump three. I watch the lady step out of her car, swipe her credit card, and begin pumping. Wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am.

“You see that?” he points, closing one eye as if he’s taking aim. I watch the lady and shrug. For a moment I think he’s going to rattle off the history of Burma, or recite lines from some obscure poet, or detail the career of some artist nobody could give a shit about.

“Yeah,” I say, and exhale through my nose.

“That’s why I’m not going anywhere,” he says. “And this.” He holds the book up to illustrate his point.

“What?” I say. “‘And this’ what?”

“Where else can I find a job that pays me to lean back and feed my mind? It’s perfect. I sit here and just make sure everything is square. Ring up a coffee or hot dog now and then. Read Proust or Eliot. Other than that....”

I’ve heard this line a thousand times before. Eddie and his wise-ass ideas. This is why we’re at loggerheads to begin with. What Eddie doesn’t understand is that all those concepts don’t mean squat in the real world. All he’s got to show for his energies is an empty bank account, and a bunch of ratty-old paperbacks.

“Why don’t we just go on over there and see. No need to actually do anything other than listen and see. Can we do that? Will you just come and see what else there is out there?”

As soon as the words leave my mouth the nacho guy leans past me and places his basket on the counter. He digs in his wallet, pulls out a fiver, and hands it to my brother. Eddie hits a few buttons on the register, hands the man his change, and thanks him.

I watch this exchange as if I’m not Eddie’s only goddamned brother. It’s as if I’m just in a gas station, watching two slobs carry through a transaction. This is the clientele my brother has to deal with. I think about my wife, the new six thousand square foot six bedroom spread we bought a year ago. Beautiful view of the river. The best furniture money can buy. Top notch everything. I think about our two-year-old little girl, the joy that she will know growing up in our home. Then I think about Eddie’s dingy basement apartment and his bowl of sickly goldfish and snails sucking the glass. How does he stand it? For a moment I am almost inspired to cut him a check right there—just a brotherly gesture. Ten grand. Twenty? Just as long as he trades in his current life for an upgrade.

Then Eddie lifts his head and smiles.

“What’s wrong?” I ask him.

“Nothing,” he says. “Nothing at all.”

I rap the counter with my knuckles and follow the fat guy out the door. I want to tell Eddie that life doesn’t have to be as hard as he’s making it, that he’s so much better than a gas station lackey, that he could still make it if he tries. I want to tell him that this gas station shit reflects poorly on me. Grow up and get a real job, for the sake of the family. For me. For all of us. It just makes me feel in the dumps having a brother like this. This is reason number one why I don’t bother. But something has changed somehow. I can’t put my finger on it, but I can feel it anyway. Something is different.

I hit the ignition, rev the engine, throw the top down on my convertible, kick the car in reverse.