BRIAN'S DEAD

When I was growing up and we were discovering the cheap thrills of Matamoros, we would return in the early hours from Mexico and stop at the Austin Cafe for enchiladas that would eliminate the edge from the next day's hangover. The Austin Cafe had opened in 1906, the same year that black troops stationed in Brownsville had allegedly shot up the town and the same year that the railroad arrived in Brownsville and connected the town with the rest of the nation. Antonio Vasquez's father had been the proprietor and had bequeathed the establishment to his son as well as numerous other properties that he managed as a slumlord. He had a daughter and a son, Briana, who married a surfer when she was 18 and was living at the Island 30 years later with a waiter, and Brian, who was my age but had attended parochial school. He worked at the restaurant's cash register and was at this post from the time I first accompanied my father for breakfast in the morning. Since we went to different high schools, it wasn't until I came home from college that he and I became friends, he having replaced his father on the graveyard shift during the week since like the rest of us he had free reign on the weekends and was usually eating like the rest of us at three in the morning. It wasn't uncommon for me to be returning in the wee hours on a Wednesday or a Thursday after a spontaneous night in Matamoros. He'd be sitting in a booth drinking coffee and keeping an eye on drunk customers recently exiting from the Market Square cantinas. His face would brighten when I'd enter because he wanted to hear all the details about my latest foray on the other side. He would offer me a beer, which I would have to drink out of a coffee cup in case the police arrived unexpectedly, or a line of coke that he would cut over the tank in the men's bathroom, or a joint that we would smoke in the alley, or all three, which weren't rare occasions. Brian possessed Italian good looks. He had married the pretty daughter of a rich merchant. He supplemented his income from his father's business by becoming the manager of the Chrysler dealership, a job he held for a decade until he spun out of control, the loss of direction coming in the wake of a divorce and the death of his father although cocaine and crack were the real culprits. He found irregular employment at the Island as a waiter and a bartender. I seldom saw him, a bitterness having overtaken him, his condition exacerbated by growing paranoia. Several years ago I encountered him at a club. After the place closed, we went to my apartment to snort coke and drink beer. "I want you to do a favor for me," he said. "Sure." "I want you to write in your column that I had a confrontation with my ex-wife's boyfriend at the Sombrero Club." It was tidbits about the personal lives of locals sprinkled among the general commentary regarding politics, sports and culture that provided the important spice to my daily musings as a columnist. "Did you hear..." was followed by "How did you know?" which invoked the answer, "In Tamaulipas' column." Brian explained that he had seen his ex with her lover at the bar and a shoving match ensued, which resulted in Brian's expulsion from the club. I wrote about the incident and elicited the usual chuckles from those who knew the principals. A week later I bumped into Brian in another club and he started screaming, "You ruined my marriage! You ruined my marriage!" "What are you talking about?" I asked in disbelief as I retreated into a defensive position since he resorted to blows at the slightest provocation, a lifetime of thrashing skidrow bums and drunk shrimpers part of his apprenticeship at the restaurant. "You ruined my marriage with your comments in the paper," he ranted. I looked at him incredulously. Was he coked out of his mind? Was he searching for a scapegoat to unleash his frustrations? I had often been confronted by angry readers in public places and had learned as a matter of survival to extricate myself successfully from these delicate situations. Confronting drugged and drunk hotheads like Brian was never an effective strategy. "Don't you remember, Brian, that you were the one who told me to put the incident in the newspaper?" "I would have never done anything to jeopardize my marriage," he seethed. "I'm sorry if I offended you. Can I get you a drink?" "Fuck you, asshole!" Last week a pair of Cajuns on leave from an oil rig barged into a private party at the Island where Brian was drumming. He rose, approached the pair and asked them to leave, a natural act for him since he had been escorting drunks out of his father's restaurant all his life. He had more than once put individuals in the hospital who didn't respond positively to his requests. Nobody heard the exchange, but they departed and Brian returned to his musical duties. He drummed the remainder of the evening until the party ended at two. The surveillance camera caught the murder. As Brian exited the club, the two were waiting for him. They ambushed him with pipes. He never saw the attack coming. He fell to the ground and they beat him until they disappeared into the dark. Brian died the next morning. I didn't bother to attend the wake or the burial. Without the blank screen to fill, I felt no need to issue an pronouncement, which would have required an appearance. Grilled chicken was a house speciality, the family longtime practitioners of South Texas barbecuing. With a dollop of rice and bowl of frijoles a la charra, I more than filled my belly. Brian had arrived early and wasn't scheduled to work for a few hours with his father behind the counter. He and I were eating and talking in the booth when a woman in her late twenties--about our ages in those skinny days--walked into the restaurant and found a place. We looked at her and then we looked at each other. "Excuse me," said Brian. "Would you like to sit with us?" She studied us for a second, rose from her chair and sat next to Brian in the booth. "My name is Brian and this is Tommy. What's your name?" "My name is Darlene," she answered. She had dirty blonde hair, brown eyes and a freckled face. Her jaw receded into her throat. She was short and stocky with trailer trash written all over her stumpy body, but it wasn't often that white girls strolled downtown. "Where are you from?" continued Brian who was accustomed to making small talk with customers. "East Texas." "Is it as hot there as it is here?" "No." "Would you like a cold beer?" "Why? Do you sell them hot?" Darline Cobb was from Nacodoches. She had been married twice and her two children were with her mother back home. She had come to visit her brother who was working at the Port of Brownsville as a welder, but he and his wife had gotten into a fight and Darlene had taken a taxi downtown to escape the ruckus. She confessed that she had no plans for the evening. I was living at the Cameron Motel three blocks away and I suggested to Brian that if he had some coke we might go to my room and party in peace. "You have coke!" she exclaimed, a spark of electricity energizing her languid body. "Are you interested in going to Tommy's room?" asked Brian. She smiled, revealing teeth that had seen a dentist's touch in years. We walked to the motel. The desk was accustomed to a steady flow of traffic moving in and out of my room and the clerk flashed me that aggrieved grin of someone outside looking in. There was nothing fancy about the room, but it was clean, fresh towels hung in the bathroom every day, the maid changed the sheets every three days and I had a color TV with a remote, which was a luxury in those days since I had never possessed either. I kept a mini-refrigerator stocked with beer, juice and snacks. After we snorted, Brian pulled out a joint and we smoked it. "Aren't you afraid that someone will report you?" asked Darlene. "I've been here several years. The employees sometimes knock at the door with a joint." We were eyeing each other nervously. "I have an idea," I said as I extracted a deck of cards from the drawer of a table next to my bed. "Let's play strip poker." Brian looked at me askance. "Let's do it," she said. I then suggested that we play twenty-one with the loser or losers discarding a piece of clothing. I wanted her nude as quickly as possible. Five minutes later I was straddling her while she masturbated Brian. He was married and didn't want to place his penis in pestilent places. Now Brian is dead and I'm sitting alone on the sofa asking myself where will I lay my weary head. I walk to the patio and turn on the fan, but it is too hot. I stretch out on the couch in my office with another ceiling fan swirling above me. The couch, really a loveseat, isn't long enough. I rise and return to the couch in the frontroom and place two pillows at one end. The clock above the television reads 11:30.