Room in the Bed

Oh Death,

Slow and steady.

Sure and welcoming.

Feared and avoided.

You exit. You grace. You blackening heart.

The man without a face.

The man of every place.

Oh Death.

I wait for you. I invite you with every choice and word and turn and I set a place for you at night.

I leave room in the bed.

In my head

You constant companion.

Motivation for success and logic for apathy and steel under faith and eyes for life and beauty.

Oh Death.

Aren't you everything?

In the end,

aren't you just all there is, Death?

Brandon (part three)

The sitting room was small. There were four chairs against the back wall and you could touch the other wall, that was plexiglass from halfway up, almost with your knees as you sat. I sat still in my chair and the fluorescent light above me hummed away as they do and I kept glancing at the door to the critical care unit.

My shoes were still wet from the slush outside and my socks were wet but the heat in the sitting room and maybe the hospital was incessant and I was nearly sweating. I moved my toes and pictured my socks with mildew. My coat was in the chair next to me and I rolled it up and used it for a pillow. I leaned my head back and stared out through the plexiglass at the empty hospital. Machines made their noises and nurses unseen made their rounds and in sitting rooms in other floors and wings and units loved ones worried and waited and didn't sleep and slept.

Brandon will be fine, I thought.

Black Brandon leaned against the door frame and watched me. I didn't look at him. I knew he was there.

"It's okay, James."

You don't know that.

"I do," he said.

I looked through the window and saw nothing.

I thought about rent. Brandon's car. Work. Laundry. Groceries. Anything to keep my mind clear.

My body was weighted and in the imagined black I waited.

I must have slipped into sleep because I jumped awake when someone knocked loudly on the window.

I looked up quickly and was confused and forgot briefly where I was but quickly remembered. A girl was knocking on the window. Brown hair. Thin. Older than me but not old. She waved and then opened the door and came in.

"Hi. You're James?" she asked.

"Yes?"

She stuck out her hand to shake. "I'm Susan. Brandon's sister."

"I didn't realize he had a sister. He always said he didn't have family."

"Yeah, well, he would say that," she said as she set her coat and purse down into a chair a few down from me. "He has family. Me. Josh his brother, and our dad."

I sat up in the chair. My back had cramped and Black Brandon was nowhere and I felt alone against Susan.  
Does even Black Brandon hide from his family?

"Strange. Why did he say otherwise?"

"He didn't grow up with us. I guess maybe he felt like he didn't actually have family. I don't know."

I wanted to say we would ask him when he woke up, but I couldn't bring myself to assume either way and realizing that closed my throat and I choked and coughed.

"Oh, you okay?" Susan asked.

"Fine," I said, catching my breath. "Did they tell you what happened? What;s going on? Anything? They wouldn't tell me and my fucking brain keeps going to the worst places and I've been panicking all night..."

"They did."

"And?"

She turned her mouth downward and a great chasm opened up in me and an insatiable vacuum began to suck all love and beauty and joy and logic from the world. I will never forget her face. Later, I realized she hadn't been sad or distraught the whole time. Only once she had to answer me.

"How much do you know?" she asked.

"Nothing. They just said he was in an accident but wouldn't tell me anything because I wasn't family."

"Okay. I know you were close. Friends and roommates and everything, but I need you to bear with me please. At least until I finish."

"You're making me nervous."

"Brandon was hit."

"What do you mean? How?" I could feel my heart again, only for a second as it began to pump a bit faster, a bit harder. Something about an explanation made everything worse. Made everything real. Something about an explanation stole all hiding from you.

"Okay. According to the doctor, and the police and according to witness' on the scene, Brandon was pulled over on the interstate. On the shoulder. And apparently it was all snowy and icy here last night?"

"Yes." I spoke slowly.

"He was outside of his car. On the shoulder and scraping his back windshield..."

"His fucking defroster. I told him..."

She looked at me and continued. "Well, some car tried to pass him, on the right, and hit him. A man there who was going twenty or so he says, says he saw it all. The car hit him and Brandon flipped over it and hit the pavement, and the man pulled over and whoever hit him drove off and the man called 911. That's about all I know."

"Fucking god. Jesus. Is he going to be okay? Did they say? Is he okay?"

She took a deep breath. It filled her and I saw every moment of it and the world slowed and I saw every moment of everything and I heard all sounds and saw all sights and I was everything and I was everywhere as she said; "No."

I felt my body begin to collapse. Crumble. "What do you mean?"

"Tests apparently came back this morning. Before I woke you up."

"And?" My voice sounded weak. Nearly a whisper.

 "They, um, he's not there."

"What? What the fuck does that mean?"

"He's not showing any brain activity. They think that when he hit the pavement he, well, he's brain dead."

"Just like that?"

She didn't say anything.

"Well, fuck, what do they do? What can be done? I mean, he's still alive though, right? He can come back. He's still in there. Still in bed. I mean just, he can heal and he'll be fine. Right? Surgery or, something? Right?"

She had large brown eyes and now I saw that she looked like Brandon and I thought that maybe she could be my friend now and I thought that maybe she was Brandon now and that was why I never heard of her before and I thought that this was Black Brandon too. Breaking the news to me.

It's not okay you fucker! It's not okay!

Susan wasn't Brandon. She wasn't Black Brandon. She was Susan.

"I have to sign the order," she said.

"The order?" I realized I was crying.

"To take his body off of life support."

"What?" I stood up. "You can't! He could make a recovery! He could be fine! You can't tell after one fucking night! You can't! People lie in comas for years and then their back! He could be fine again! He could be fine! You can't just kill him! Who the fuck are you? You don't even exist to him!"

She took her purse and stood. "This isn't a coma. He isn't coming back. I'm sorry." She faked a smile and walked out and toward the Critical Unit.

I followed her. "You have no right! You don't even exist to him! You don';t exist!"

Her pace quickened and so did mine. She walked into the Critical Care Unit and I followed only a few steps behind.

"Brandon had no family! You fucking murdering bitch! You don't even exist! I am Brandon's family!"

A nurse came running over to me and took my arms and began to pull me back toward the door. "No! Don't touch me!"

"Sir!" the nurse said. "I have to ask you to leave. We can't have that going on."

I looked at the nurse and I was sobbing and my chest had finally cracked wide open. "Please don't let her kill my friend," I said.

Susan kept her back to me.

"Susan! Please! Please don't kill my friend!"

Brandon (part two)

My mother drove steadily, thought not fast. The roads were ice and slush and no one else on the interstate seemed to remember that they had driven in these conditions before. Panicked and swerving and four-way flashers on, the cars around us seemed far more dangerous than the weather. She asked me if I knew anything else. I didn't. We didn't speak much on the way, but every few minutes she said things like "I'm sure he's fine," and "it's okay James," and in the back seat Black Brandon watched us and he didn't want to smile and I could feel him.

 I couldn't shake the dream and a bud of hollowness in my chest, ever expanding slowly. 

An hour and a half later we were in Albany and the Medical Center. I went to the E.R. because I didn't know where else to go. There was a nurse at the desk and she looked indifferently at me. "Can I help you?"

"Yes. My name is James Martin. My friend was just admitted a few hours ago. I was his emergency contact. I don't know where he is."

She looked at her computer screen and she wasn't panicked but I was. "Name?"

"James Martin."

"No, his name. The patients name."

"Oh, Brandon. Brandon Stevens." 

My mother stood next to me. "Relax bud," she said, "keep calm."

The nurse played on her keyboard. "He seems to be in the Critical Care unit."

"Can I see him?"

 "Are you family?"

"What? No. I'm his emergency contact. I'm his friend. He doesn't have family."

 "I will have one of the other nurses bring you up. Just have a seat and someone will be with you shortly."

My mother and I sat down in the waiting room. The walls were painted a cold grey and the lights were humming and bright and there was a man across the room from us with a towel around his hand that might have started off white but was now deep red and saturated and I wondered how long he had been here.

"It's going to be all right," my mother said.

"I know," I said. "I know."

"Good. Brandon doesn't have any other family?"

"Not that I know of. It's a long story."

"Okay," she said.

We waited a while longer and each time the door opened I was ready to stand up and leave but they always called another name and each time it happened was exponentially more infuriating than the last. 

Finally a nurse who looked older than she probably was came in through the door and I expected her to call another name, but she called mine. We stood up and followed her through the doors and to the elevator.

"Do you know what happened to him?" I asked.

She was looking at paperwork and not at us. "No, all I know is that I was to take you upstairs to Critical."

"Okay."

We went to the fourth floor and got out. The old young nurse took us to the nurses station of the unit. "One nurse was there and she was on the phone. "This is Louise. She'll help you out." The old young nurse left and Louise was still on the phone.

I looked up and down the hall looking for clues as to where he might be. The doors were all closed and there wasn't much noise from anywhere. Louise hung up the phone. "Can I help you?"

"Yes, I'm looking for my friend. Brandon Stevens. I was told he was here."

"Are you family?" she asked.

"No, I'm his emergency contact. Someone called me."

"Oh, you're James. Yes I called you. And this is...?" she nodded to my mother.

"My mother."

"Okay, unfortunately she's going to have to stay out here."

"Okay," I said. 

Louise stood up and walked around the desk and I followed her down the hall. It was dim and I heard machines beep and my heart sunk and She opened the door to room eleven and walked in and I followed her.

Brandon was in a bed. His eyes were closed and he had tape wrapped around most of his head and he was purple and red and black and not moving. He had an oxygen mask in place and hoses in his arms and a light shining down on him, and machines gauging who knew what.

It's okay, James. I heard Black Brandon say again.

"What happened?" I asked.

"Unfortunately, while I can let you see him and help fill out some of the paperwork, I can't divulge that sort of information to anyone other than family."

"He doesn't have any."

"I still can't. The doctor might, but he is tied up at the moment."

"Can you tell me if he's going to be okay?"

She looked at him, and then me and tightened her lips. "I really can't say. He's scheduled for tests tomorrow and they should know then if you want to come back and speak to the doctor."

Brandon was swelling. I could see it in his hands and neck and the parts of his face that I could see. His machine beeped in time.

"I can't get here again," I said.

"You are free to wait in the sitting area outside of the unit."

"Okay. Thank you."

"We should leave now though, he'll need as much peace as he can get," she said and I didn't know then what she meant.

I went out and my mother was still at the nurses station.

"They won't tell me anything," I said.

"Because you aren't family?"

"Yeah."

"But you are his emergency contact?"

"Doesn't matter," I said. "They're doing tests tomorrow and she said the doctor might tell me something then."

"I have to work in the morning. I can't stay here all night."

"I have to stay."

"How will you get home?" she asked.

"I don't know. I'll figure it out."

"Okay," she said.

Louise handed me a clipboard with a stack of papers. If you can just fill these out as best as you can?"

"What are these?" I asked.

"Basic intake forms. Some insurance things." 

"I don't know a lot of this," I said, flipping through it all.

"Just fill out what you can," she said.

I took the clipboard into the sitting area and my mother and I sat down.

"Are you all right if I head home then bud?"

"Yeah, mom, I'll be fine."

"You sure?"

"Yes, thank you for driving me."

"Of course. Listen," she said, "I love you. Brandon will be okay, I promise. Keep calm."

"Okay."

She kissed my forehead and faked a smile and left and I began to fill out the paperwork and Brandon was red and purple and bandaged and not moving. Black Brandon sat next to me and together we listened to the clock tick and neither of us really slept and we waited for morning.

Brandon (part one)

I was asleep on the floor in our living room, on a pile of blankets I was calling a bed and the living room was dark and I sat up and Brandon was sitting on the couch near my head. He was black. All black and wrong and he tried to smile at me and I sat up and I knew he didn't want to smile and he said "it's okay James." He had his leg crossed over the other and he kept trying to smile and I knew he didn't want to. He was all black. Like ashes and not shadows. His eyes dimmed and he was gone and I woke up.

I was sweating and upright. I was on the floor, on a pile of blankets, in the dark living room. I looked at the couch and Brandon was not there and I stared at the couch.

Brandon and I shared an apartment outside of town. It had one bedroom and since I was the newer roommate, I had taken the living room floor and he slept in the bedroom, although he was not there tonight. It was March and Wednesday, and every Wednesday Brandon drove forty-five minutes away to Springer and line-danced in a country and western club called "Margarets!" He would be there all night and he was young, but older than me. He wore his western shirt with lasso's and a cowboy hat and cowboy boots and he would tip his hat to me as he left each Wednesday and then he would be back late and happy.

It was 11:45 when the dream woke me up. I stared at the clock and something was wrong and I knew something was wrong. Something was wrong with Brandon but I laid back down on the pile of blankets and tried to close my eyes and go to sleep and shake the feeling. 

The phone rang and I looked at the clock on top of the television and fifteen minutes had passed. The phone rang again and it was in the adjoined kitchen. I got out of bed and went into the kitchen and answered it.

"Hello?"

"James Martin?"

"Yes?"

I had met Brandon nearly a year before. He was a shift manager at a restaurant I had been hired at as a breakfast cook. He had just moved upstate and had lucked into the position, but was living in his car. I was between girlfriends and was sleeping wherever I could. Laundromats. Bus stops. My mother's couch when the nights were too cold and my pride gave way. He had dyed his hair red white and blue for the fourth of July and he was twenty one then and I was nineteen and we talked about patriotism versus blind American following. He was a patriot and believed in revolution, but no more than occasionally talking about it with me. He dyed his hair because he had an excuse to dye it. He gave me free meals when I couldn't afford them and we drank in the parking lot after work and we became friends and people at work began to refer to us as a single entity, BrandonandJames. 

"You're listed as Brandon Steven's emergency contact," the voice at the other end of the line said.

"Maybe," I said, "I'm not sure."

Brandon got the apartment. It was cheap and he got what he paid for, but it wasn't the back of an '88 Camry and it was his. I helped him move in and after work we would go there and drink and laugh and talk and when Brandon was ten years old he and his mother lived under an overpass in Albany and for his birthday she gave him a bag of stolen medical supplies, syringes and whatnot, and he lived on stolen Doritos and his family had disappeared and he had no one. He had escaped his mother, but she had stolen him from life and he had become a refugee of sorts and somehow, I understood him. We understood each other. He got an old black and white television and a VCR and only one tape. It was Evil Dead II and we would watch it each night. Sometimes watching it, sometimes just letting it play as we shot the shit and drank and dreaded the following days work. After the first month Brandon came to me at the grill at work and said "Hey man, listen, I was thinking, you need a place to stay?" I did. "Why don't you move in with me? We'll split the bills. We should both be able to handle it fine." I agreed. I moved in the next day. It didn't take long. I only had a few boxes of shit. Brandon had the bedroom, and I put my boxes in the closet and laid blankets on the floor and it was far better than a laundromat.

"Brandon's been in an accident. We'll need you to come to the Albany Medical Center."

"What kind of accident?" I asked.

"We can't say just yet. Please come as soon as possible."

I didn't have a car and Brandon and I would drive to work together. We tried to schedule our shifts simultaneously but sometimes one of us would have to hang out in the break room for a few hours on either side of the others shift. It didn't matter. We had no where to be and there was cable in the break room and we would steal onion rings and we ate better than at home.Winter came and snow piled up and the air became thin and unbearable and at work we unloaded trucks of food together and at home we shoveled the driveway and ran to the car and smoked pot on the back porch and laughed at the cold and drank to keep warm. We rarely turned the heater on because heat is expensive and we wore coats and boots inside a lot. 

I called my mother. The only other person I knew with a car. 

After a few rings she answered. "Hello?"

"Mom?"

"James. What?"

"I need a ride."

"Can't it wait? It's quarter after twelve for Christ's sake."

"I don't think so. The hospital just called me. They said Brandon's been in an accident. I need to go to Albany Med." I noticed I was rushing my sentences. I was slurring a little. 

"Wait, slow down. What happened?"

"Mom! I don't know! Please, can you get me?"

There was silence for a moment. "Yes bud, I'm on my way. Hang on." She hung up and I put clothes on and I kept thinking about my dream and I kept thinking about Black Brandon and I kept thinking about Brandon. She was driving from Halcyon, nearly forty five minutes away from our apartment and when I was dressed I sat in the cold on the front porch and waited for her. Decades seemed to pass. There was snow in the air and on the ground and rain fell between the snow and it all barely registered.

It's okay James.