nosleep

In the summer of 1994, my older brother ran away from home. We found a type-written note, unsigned, left crumpled in the mailbox as if he almost forgot to inform us. “Gone away, gone a-bye, gone for good, please don’t cry. Sorry, Ma.” His advice went unheeded. Mom wept for months and rarely came up from the basement. Dad cooked sausage and eggs for breakfast until Andy’s face was no longer on the milk cartons. I never thought I’d miss store-brand Cheerios.

Earlier that year, Dad went off to “visit family” for 120 days, but he’d be back sooner for good behavior or restitution. Believe it or not, he was a model visitor and he was home in time for St. Patrick’s Day. While he was gone, Andy got it in his head that he’d get a job, that it was his turn to help provide for the family. Come April, he took a part-time job working for an older lady the next town over. Too far to walk, but he could ride a bike with ease. She paid him five dollars an hour for chores, and he stayed busy enough to bring home a C-note every week. Not a bad haul for a kid counting the days until he could proudly consider himself a teenager.

Before Andy took that job, we were inseparable. Irish twins, y’know? We shared a bedroom, a budding interest in thrash metal and horror movies, and we even shared the same group of friends. We were in the same classes, thanks to Mom deciding to hold him back until we could go to school together. We shared the same clothes (minus underwear), though Andy usually got them first before he could outgrow them. In certain situations, we even shared a name. I was Sam, he was Andy, but together we were Samdy. It started as a joke, from Dad packing us identical lunches and, having grown tired of accusations of favoritism, wrote Samdy on both sacks and let us take turns picking first. The lunches weren’t anything to write home about, often thin egg salad sandwiches wrapped in wax paper with no-name Fritos in a resealable bag. Resealable meant reusable, and at the end of the school day, Samdy dutifully brought home the sacks, wax and all.

Things changed when we saw a “help wanted” sign on the notice board at Angelo’s, the local quick shop. Usually we kept an eye peeled high for yard sales or missing pets (especially those that mentioned reward money), but this one was tacked to the barren bottom.

Wanted: Young man to assist with landscaping and gardening. Duties include weeding, pest control, and planting seed. Experience not required or preferred. No telephone calls accepted, must apply in-person to Mrs. Chava at [address redacted].

I’ve often thought back to that day, and I wonder what would have happened if we went together. Maybe neither of us would have gotten the job, maybe I would have taken it first. Who knows, it might not have changed anything. Instead, Andy leaned in to read the fine print, then he jerked his head back while snatching the notice from the board and he bolted for the door.

I yelled after him. “What are you thinking? You hate bugs! You hate mowing the grass!” I don’t think he heard me. He ran home, jumped on his Huffy, and pedaled downhill without looking back. He came home that evening with dirt in his fingernails and his hair in a muss. Dad marveled at the matching silver certificates Andy was paid, a pair of Hamiltons that were quickly tucked into the deliriously optimistic tin box marked “college fund”. Samdy didn’t share a bedroom for grins and giggles.

Andy also came home with a small bandage on his wrist. Mom asked him what happened and he said, “I just scraped it moving a heavy planter. Don’t worry, Mrs. Chava fixed me up good. She used to be a nurse in a field hospital during the war.” Dad quickly changed the subject. His “vacation” to Canada in the early 70s was well known in town.

This new job started slowly, just a few hours a day, a few days a week after school, and a bit on the weekends. I’d spend my free time alone or out with one of our friends, often with Mike Hodger who lived a few houses down from us. Mike and I would listen to music in his living room or go to the park. Sometimes we’d even go to the library, but he rarely checked out any of the books he read. I think he was worried his older sister would call him a nerd or something cruder. They got along okay, but they weren’t Samdy.