Saturday Morning Blood

The phone rings.

I’d like to say it wakes me up, but it doesn’t. I’m up, watching some band whose name I ignore doing their thing on Austin City Limits.

I’m back home for a few weeks because sometimes you move out and run out of money and nothing works out and then you’re broke and sad and drunk and empty and you have to come back home for a while with your tail between your legs and the best things about that is you don’t have to pay rent and mom does your laundry and there’s food in the fridge and you have basic cable for a while.

Anyway, my brain jumps to terrible conclusions.

Someone died in a car crash.

The dude calling kidnapped a family member and wants ten million dollars.

Aliens are liquefying people in the streets with strange guns.

I have to get dressed and go identify my best friend’s mutilated corpse.

I get up, walk to the wall mount thingy, and pick up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Yeah, put Maria on.”

Maria is my sister. We don’t get along much. I don’t like most of the things she does. I hate the men she goes out with. I only mention that to convey the fact that dudes calling and asking for her in the middle of the night is not unheard of. Luckily, most of them call at regular hours.

It’s too late. Or too early. Pick one. The point is my brain is not working properly. It’s more or less entirely focused on inventing names for the band I’ve been listening to.

The Open Books

Boogie Wipes

Too Many Strings

Decorating Couplers

This Isn’t Your Band

Who Needs a Name?

The Toxic Organics

The Somewhatoriginals

Nothing Works

I go back to the call with only a third of my brain.

“Who’s calling?”

“That’s none of your business. Is Maria there or not?”

Haha.

The guy at the other end of the line has an attitude. My attitude is bigger. My attitude snaps my brain away from naming the band and gets to work. I realize I’m angry. Aren’t we all?

“Listen, motherfucker, I asked you your name.”

“Who the fuck are you?”

“I’m Maria’s brother and…”

“Well, Maria’s brother, put her on or I’m gonna pay you a visit tomorrow.”

“There’s nothing in this life that would make me happier.”

The guy says something else that doesn’t register and hangs up.

The funny thing is my voice is nasal and somewhat high-pitched. 

I sound small. I’m not.

A few hours later, I’m still awake. Someone rings the doorbell. 

My sister’s in the shower. My mom’s in the kitchen. I walk to the door wearing orange boxers with tiny blue whales on them and open the door.

The guy standing outside is about 6’4. He’s wearing shorts, a yellow shirt and a shit-eating grin.

I’ve seen him around. He lives two blocks down. Biggest house in the neighborhood. Nicest cars parked outside, too. He’s three years younger than me, a year older than my sister.

I take a step toward him and obliterate that thing folks call personal space.

The grin disappears quickly.

I’m about 5’9, but I’ve been into bodybuilding/powerlifting for a while.

The guy is probably a buck sixty. I’m about 220.

“Are you…Maria’s brother?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m…We…”

I pop him in the nose. A good one, but not with everything I have behind it.

He takes a step back, holds his nose. I see blood.

I grab his neck. The guy’s defense tactic is to collapse on top of my arm.

I remove my appendage and he goes down.

I grab a leg and drag him to the sidewalk.

He’s saying things, but I don’t pay attention.

I grab his yellow shirt, which now has a bit of blood on it, and yank him into somewhat of a sitting position.

He lets go of his nose and I punch him again. This time around, I put a good dose of anger and weight behind it. Something cracks. More blood. I smile.

Then, surprisingly, I punch him again.

My fist smashes against the hand he was bringing up to his face. 

He screams.

Pop, pop. Two more.

The anger about the phone call is gone. I have no idea why I’m messing his face up this bad. Except I know why. I’m punching every rich asshole I’ve ever met. I’m making my own frustrations bleed. I’m punching everyone who’s taller than me. I’m punching the fact that I had to come back home broke and with my tail between my legs. I’m punching all my resentment.

Then my sister and my mom are trying to pull me back, screaming things about not killing him.

I stop.

I look down at him. He’s gurgling blood, his eyes are rolled into the back of his head like he’s looking for God in his skull.

I look down at the tiny blue whales on my underwear and start laughing because sometimes life gives you small treats and you end up with a rich kid’s blood all over your knuckles and cackling like a madman on the sidewalk outside your parents’ house on a beautiful Saturday morning.