See My Family

by Adam Jeffries Schwartz

See my family. See my family all in a row. See them in front of our house. Mother, father, brother, brother, brother--stick figures all--holding hands, you won't see that again.

It's a drawing by brother number three (he's the tiny figure at the end of the line--the X). He isn't a good artist but he got the dimensions right by accident (he was an accident, a rubber broke. My father--perversely--loves that story).

We're a shallow family. Shallow, shallow, shallow. But no one fills up one dimension as completely as we do. We bring a whole new depth to shallowness. Depth, when it comes, is a mistake; it comes in all the wrong places. A manhole cover disappears and suddenly, oops, you're gone. You're forgotten and unmourned.

See dad, the tallest. He has curly black hair just like the dad from The Brady Bunch, Robert Reed, who was gay also. Father Brady once tried to pick me up in a bar. He had AIDS then. He didn't mention it. But I didn't let the negotiations get that far. Maybe he would have said something. Maybe not.

See mom. See mom with her Marlo Thomas hair. See it curl on her shoulders just so. This is no accident.

See mom flip through Glamour, see her flip through Vogue with dad off somewhere.

See mom smoke. See mom drink. See mom pop pills. See mom on the telephone, telling the same story over and over, louder and louder, faster and faster. See the paramedics.

See brother number two. I won't say anything about him, he'd sue. Everyone needs a hobby. This is his. So, not a word from me.

So, you won't hear one word about his first wife, nor his second, nor his third. You won't hear one word about the indictments, the creditors, the trials, the secret accounts. Not one word.

Now, go to the end of the line. Poor kid, not a person yet. He's just an X. He's forever reaching up. He's the brother I wanted. He was mine

. He cried. I walked down the hall, shook mom, opened her eyelids.

"He's crying," I'd say.

"Why don't you see what he wants?" Mom said.

I walked back down the hall, checked him, then opened her eyelids again.

"His diaper's wet."

Without lifting her head mom said, "Why don't you change it then?" And I would. Then I would make breakfast, go to the corner, step on the school bus and go to school where I learned: to print, to add, to subtract. Subtracting was the hardest. It's also, as it turns out, the most important.

The X was the perfect toddler. Then something went wrong. He couldn't read. He couldn't write. There was a list of things he just couldn't do. It was a long list. Mom was stumped. And, well, between manicures and Mensa there is so little time. Any idiot could see that.

See my family. Mother, father, brother, brother, brother holding hands. You won't see that again. I know I won't.

I just saw the X at the end of the line. I hate going. I hate the smell of the place. I hate the slack jaws. I hate the blank eyes. And that's just the staff.

I hate the art projects. I especially hate the drawings he gives me, like this one, the one that's in my hand right now.

him not steal. See how this limits his career choices. See him listen to the rain, jumping like the monkeys on the roof. See him yell, "Monkeys." See him jump up and down excitedly.

See the nurse rush over with a syringe.

See him need a prison break. See me call dad. See me not want to call dad. See me dial. See me hang up. See me dial again. See dad in a caftan. See dad splash way too much patuli oil all over his person. See dad waste his life.

See me ready to be civil.

See dad answer the phone, "Namaste."

"Namaste?" See me try not to laugh.

"Yeah, namaste," dad says, "It's spir-it-u-al. You have a problem with it?"

"No, dad. I'm delighted, really. So now you're a Hindu?"

See dad take a ponderous breath in. See dad take an even longer breath out. "In fact I am."

"That's great dad, which caste?"

"Huh?"

"Caste, dad. Tinker. Tailor. Candlestick maker. Which caste?"

"I'm skipping that part."

"Sort of like Reform Hinduism."

See dad say, "You wouldn't understand. It's spiritual."

See me get to the point, "Why don't you take some of this spirit, walk it down to the X and spring him from the joint?"

See dad run. "Why don't you?"

"He needs a parent's signature."

See dad hide, "I have to take another call."

See me call mom.

"We need to talk."

See mom take a sip from her highball. "Must we?"

"Have you seen X?"

See mom run. "I see the bills."

"Mom, please. He needs a parent." See the ice cubes collide.

See mom hide. "Everyone says it's not my fault. You know what that means, don't you?"

See me stumped. "That it's not your fault?"

See mom stub out her cigarette and light a new one. See mom say, "Don't be an idiot. The last thing I need is another one of those."

See me say nothing.

See the thunder. See the lightning. See the rain. See X at the end of the line jumping up and down yelling, "Monkeys."

See me run to India, where monkeys do jump on the roof, where it does sound like rain.

See the nurse, who has never been to India. See the orderlies, who have never listened to the rain. See them hold down brother number three. See the syringe go into his arm. See him sleep.

See me do nothing about it.

See my family all in a row. Mother, father, brother, brother, brother.

Fuck that.

In the Airport

The last time I went to Cambodia, five years ago, I bought a bus ticket. The "eighteen-hour trip from Bangkok--I promise, I swear" took three days.

We rode until the road stopped. There had been a fight; the rice fields won.

I took photographs: children bouncing in the water, waving, so happy. I used to do that--in summer--after the swimming pool leaked. My brothers and I would slide around. It was a long time ago.

I framed the photographs, hung them in my bedroom. Now they're in a storage locker and I'm at the airport. (Just fifty minutes away, so convenient.)

There's free coffee in the lounge; there are mini-croissants.

China-speak

CNN plays Public Service Announcements made by China Televison as if they were news. Chinese people always represent a group of society that's so pleased with some new development.

In case you miss the visual, don't worry they will tell you:
"As a young person." the young person says.
"As a elderly woman." the elderly woman says.
They are both so pleased to contribute to society and encourage other members of their demographic to do likewise.

Of course, American news isn't really news either, it just flows in the opposite direction--from the group directly to them individually.
"As a teen." The teen says.
"As a working mother." The woman says.
"I'm worried that the government isn't doing enough to protect me."
Me, me, me, me me.

The Author

Adam Jeffries Schwartz is a writer and a traveler. He has stories in Descant and Grimm magazines(both in Canada), Petit Journal (Mexico) and in the anthology, Walking Higher (USA)

Online he pops up at many sites, including Ghoti (Fish) Magazine, Melange, LitBits, Magazine Shiver, Mosaic Minds, Kaleidowhirl and Anacoenesis Literary Journal.