01. A Thing That Happens
May 2014
This is a thing that happens. You get a phone call. It's not the middle of the night. It's not in the wee hours. You aren't startled, shaken. You don't recognize the number, but you've been sending out resumes. And this is a thing that happens. People call. People you don't recognize. People you've never met. They call you around 1:30 in the afternoon and they tell you that they don't know what to say. That something strange might be happening. And that they hate to be the one. They don't mean to meddle. It's about your brother. Your brother Vincent. This person. This person on the phone. She works with Vincent, and he hasn't shown up for three days. He hasn't called. He has me down as his emergency contact. And this person, this Carol, she is worried. She is troubled. Her voice is a tiny bit hiccupy. Because this isn't a thing that happens. People don't just not come to work. They don't not call in. Especially Vincent. Responsible Vincent. Reliable Vincent. Perfect Vincent. And did I know how to get in touch with him? An alternate number? For my brother. For Vincent. Vince. Who lives in New York. And New York is quite a few miles from the apartment that I'm not quite living in. The apartment with the couch I'm crashing on. And the cat hair. Because I just moved back home. To the city. The city by the lake that you almost never ever see because it is way the hell over by there. You know, it's a thing that happens. But not back *home* home. Not happening. That is not a thing that happens. I mean, it does. But not to me.
And then you thank the person who called. You will look into it. You will let her know. Everyone involved figures this is just some misunderstanding, an oversight, a mistake that we will all laugh about later, without any recollection of the fluttery hearts, the roller coaster stomach flips. These are things that happen. Things we laugh about over gravy and poultry at appointed times. Did you ever hear? No, no...Jenny why don't you tell it. You tell it better.
Once you are alone again with the cat that isn't your cat and the couch that that isn't your couch, you wonder what you should do? Do you call the police? Which police? The New York City police probably. Do you call Brenda? Vince's ma. Your mother. Is it worth worrying her? Don't you have enough to worry about? And certainly you wouldn't call dad. You never call dad. Dad doesn't help. Dad will just tell you to wait a couple weeks and wait for everything to sort itself. And dad will call Brenda for certain.
Given these circumstances, you might sit there for a while, almost happy that you don't know what exactly to do. Because you simply don't know what to do next. It's a thing that happens, you guess. I mean, you know you're going to have to do something. You're responsible. Responsible. And you told the lady you'd look into it, whatever Vince has pulled this time. He always does this. Puts you in the middle of his shit. It was a thing he did. I mean, it is a thing he does. Even all the way in New York he has found a way to drag you into his whatever-this-is. As if there wasn't enough already with the cover letters and the phone interviews and this terrible cat with some kind of sinus thing that is making it all snotty and snuffy and not even remotely like a decent couch co-pilot. And maybe all of this, all of this was a big mistake. Another one. Another thing that happens.
You turn on the teevee. You turn it back off again. You look up the NYC non-emergency police number on your phone. It takes forever to load. You think about calling and realize that you don't know what to say. You open to a blank page in your composition book and think about writing down what you'll say. You wind up simply writing down your own name and phone number at the top of the page. It's a thing. And you make the call. You say that you think that something, maybe, has happened.
