Live Más

Zach Laurent was killed by a motorist who couldn’t see him, out on a dark stretch of western road. It was a long time before I learned about his death. It was a long time to think about the short minutes of connection we shared that night, in the wash of old neon and cigarette smoke. 

***

I went to school with Zach from kindergarten through senior year of high school, but I didn’t really know him. What I did know was that he was born with Spina Bifida, the kind that left him wheelchair bound. The only time he ever talked to me was in first grade. It was that typical post-recess, crowded hallway chaos and exuberance, all us kids excited that the day was almost over. I’d just finished an intense game of WallbalI and was fighting my way through the crowd, trying to catch up with my friend Alan. I ended up right next to Zach. Maybe I’d accidentally pushed his chair, or was too close for comfort, but as I stood next to him, I shouted for Alan to wait up. Zach turned to me, thrust his finger into my ribs and yelled “My name’s not Alan and I’m not your friend.” 

I froze, looking down at him, as he glared up at me. His eyes welled with rage, and impotent anguish; his whole being on the verge of tears. Then, in one abrupt movement, he turned his chair and forced his way to a classroom at the end of the hall. We went through ten more years of school together never speaking, silently passing one another in the corridors of three different schools. The two of us, mute ghosts never locking eyes, never admitting recognition of one another. 

After graduation, I moved to the city.  A decade passed, life happened and I hadn’t thought about Zach in all that time. It was odd, but I came to find out there was a lingering thread of connection between the two of us. It happened to be through my younger brother. Around that time, my brother was bouncing between dives, sometimes tending bar, and most times dealing drugs to a few of my former classmates, who like him, hadn’t left our sleepy home town. Zach haunted a few of the same spots my brother worked, places where everyone drank deep, and spun out to inevitable ends. They ended up forming a casual friendship, people watching everyone who never left, scared of the what ifs looming just beyond the county line.. 

***

It had been about five years since I was last back home and I’d been growing nostalgic for things I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Maybe it was some kind of premonition calling me back, but really, who knows. My folks were getting on in years and I knew they would appreciate an extended visit. No rushing around, no plans, just quality time doing anything they wanted. My brother would be eager to see me as well.

So I went. The trip was easy, Mom and Dad were happy and rested, and even my brother did his best to slow down and join us from time to time. 

That relaxed pace wasn’t my brother’s speed. It never was. He wanted us to go out for his version of fun while I was still around. I resisted at first, saying it was more important for me to do what our parents wanted while I was in town. It wasn’t like I didn’t want to hang out with him, I just knew he’d be hustling the entire time we were out together. Towards the end of my stay, we finally made plans separate from our folks and ended up at a place called Ace’s Four Corners Sports Bar & Grill. My brother was a fixture there most nights, chasing desperate dollars amidst the smoke and patina of barflies that couldn’t remember their mother’s maiden names. 

We’d been there for a while. I sipped on a beer while my brother tossed back vodka shots, making rounds between pool tables. We played a few games and listened to terrible nu metal on the jukebox. A few of my brother’s “friends” came and hung out with us, talked trash, and went outside for “smokes”.

It could have been worse, but I had put in my time and was feeling restless. This place was confirmation of why I left home as soon as I could after high school. I let my brother know I wanted to head back to our folks’ place. He said he wanted to finish up one more game before we left. And as I waited at the bar to pay my tab, Zach came in.

He looked exactly as I remembered him from high school: undercut hair in a ponytail, eyebrow piercing, but more sallow through the cheeks, though I couldn’t be sure in the dim light. Seeing him, I felt anxious, panicked, overcome with a desperate need to leave. I was seven again, accused and scared in a crowded hallway. 

Zach didn’t see me at first, but he did see my brother and waved him down. My brother called him over to the table where he was playing. They chatted for a few minutes until my brother shouted my name. There was no way for me to leave unnoticed now. I mustered what small courage I had and went to join them.

My brother introduced me. “Zach, this is my older brother. He’s in town visiting.”

Zach said, “Yeah, we know each other. We went to school together.”

I still felt nerves but, in spite of the sweat on my palms, extended my hand anyway. He paused for a moment, a long-held memory working its way to the surface before he shook it.

“Hey man, how’re you doing?” I asked.

“Good,” he replied.

Trying to extract myself, I said, “I hate to be a bummer, but we were actually just taking off.”

“Yo, I’ve still got to finish this game,” my brother interjected. “You guys hang out until I’m ready.”

“Yeah, stay for a bit,” Zach replied. “Have a drink with me.”

Maybe he could sense the fear in me, or see the stress in my eyes, but he just smiled, turned his chair and made his way up to the bar without another word. I paused, then followed. Zach ordered a double whisky and I got a soda and bitters. We found an empty table in the back and sat there.

“So,” I said.

Zach spoke frankly. “Hey, man, there’s no bullshit with me here. We weren’t friends or anything, so don’t feel obligated for a weird, heartfelt reunion. We’re just two guys having drinks who happen to know each other through your brother.”

I was relieved, glad in fact that Zach had made the overture. “Fair enough,” I said. ”So, what’s been going on?”

Zach told me everything and nothing.  He said he’d been living his life as best as he knew how. He still lived with his parents, had gotten into online gaming, was popular on karaoke nights here, and routinely haggled with SSI over what he did and didn’t qualify for. He was changing his outlook on things, he said, wrapping his head around bigger concepts he hadn’t faced until now.

He asked about me. I spoke on the details of surface stuff, the dust of my life that had settled, the motes that still scattered when things were disturbed. I knew we were both thinking of the hallway after first grade recess in that conversation, letting that moment unravel and disintegrate as we talked. Each of us made a sketch of the other man across the table. It didn’t matter anymore; that fear and anger, the wounded child, the oblivious one. Whatever I had thought or felt when I was seven had nothing to do with right now. It never would.

Eventually, my brother sauntered over to where we sat, counting some sweaty bills he’d just won, and perched on the empty seat at the table. “I just cleaned up for the night,” he said. “What’s going on with you chumps?”

“Living Más, man, Living Más,” Zach replied.

Laughing, my brother said, “What the fuck?”

“You know, like the Taco Bell commercial. Live Más. I think that’s going to be my motto from here on out. If it’s good enough for the Bell, then it’s good enough for me.”

“I fucking love it! What’s the deal though? Are you going on an all taco diet now or something?”

Zach stared into his beer, then looked at me before answering. “I just sort of had this epiphany a while back. Like, I’ve got to live more, you know? It’s not like I’m not living, but I guess I think of it more as motivation. I’m just tired of being pissed off at this.” he gestured to himself and the room, his arms swept out in a dramatic pose. “I can’t control this shit, I got dreams, plans, so, Live Más! I know it’s stupid that a goddamn fast food commercial got me thinking like this, but it’s working.”

Drunk, my brother replied, “That’s some Buddhist monk shit right there. Real deep. Live Más!”

“Not really, but it’s helping out. Maybe that’s your motto, too, dude!”

“Maybe it is. Live Más. It’s got a nice ring to it.”

Zach laughed again. “I’m like a regular Johnny Taco-seed here, planting taco trees throughout the land.”

We all laughed at that, knowing the conversation had come to its end. I let Zach know it was good to connect with him after all these years, to actually talk, that I was glad he felt empowered in his life. Zach said the same. Then my brother and I left, heading east to our parent’s place, an unlooked-for resolution settling within me. I drove steady, hands at two and ten. My brother, slouching low in the passenger seat, sang along with the radio.

***

The night moved on. The dark and stars whirled above that stripmall bar. Its gold and purple neon signs, bathing the stretched, desperate souls inside in promises and fantasy. Small town pleasures, forever beckoning. 

Zach left about an hour after us, so I’m told, headed in the opposite direction.