Three Sons I start wondering which one will kill me first: the gun to my head or the pills and scotch I had an hour ago. I'm not holding the gun. My brother is. My brother doesn't have many social graces when it comes to the living. My other brother did, but he's dead. Dead makes me think of dirt makes me think of funerals makes me think of my father. My father was a practical man. He always said that there were only three people everyone would have to meet: a doctor, a lawyer, and a mortician. It's no surprise what occupations his three sons ended up in. Tommy is the doctor, Mike is the mortician, and Danny…well, I'm the lawyer. Dad worked his ass off to send us to school. It should also be noted that Dad worked his ass off just to sit on it and drink beer when he retired. He always said he had earned it. Dad said a lot. It was either listen to him or get beat by him. My brothers and I are excellent listeners. Our childhoods were about as normal as you could get. Except Christmas. Christmas held both intoxicating exhilaration and crushing despair. Our eyes bright and our hands eager, we'd tear through presents like savannah lions do young stupid zebras. As always, Tommy would get black plastic suitcases filled with fake stethoscopes and those things you look in ears with. Mike would get those weird kits that let boys bake self-made monsters in an E-Z bake oven. I would get legal pads and really nice pens. Our respective closets were piled high and full with the subtle hints we had unwrapped every year. Every year we'd ask the mall Santa, his eyes overwhelmed by a bourbon haze and apathy, for new bikes, BB guns, and candy cigarettes. Every year we'd try to open each others gifts just to break up the monotony. Monotony makes me think of ruts makes me think of life makes me think about suicide. Right now, Mike is holding the gun to my head. He doesn't know how the ten year aged Chivas Regal and Vicodins are making it hard to concentrate. He doesn't know how this is try twenty four. He doesn't know I talked to Tommy before he died. Before I'll die. Before Mike lost his fucking mind. Before Mike doesn't get the money. Money makes me think of bills makes me think of tuition makes me think of law school. After the first year, I almost died. Right before Christmas break, I went out with some friends to celebrate the end of finals. I drank. A lot. I remember drinking. I don't remember getting to the hospital because my friends were afraid when I wouldn't wake up. I did, two days later. I remember not caring. I remember three months later, after I flunked a civics class, trying to hang myself. I hated the feeling of chocking. I hated the explanations I had to make up about the deep purple bruises around my neck. I defend people for a living and I hate it. I hate defending myself even more. Bruises make me think of hitting makes me think of fighting makes me think of that time I had to get Tommy and Mike out of jail. I had just passed the bar exam. They took me out to celebrate. I took them out. Tommy hit resident status and Mike had nailed an assistant job to the owner of a large mortuary chain. Life was good. Good until they started fighting. "She loved you and you always shit on her." "You were jealous I had her and not you." "You smug…" "Do something." Whiskey had this effect on us. I stumbled to the bathroom and wandered around a bit, forgetting if I came in there to piss or puke. Both. Not at the same time, thank the Lord. By the time I finished up, washed off, and walked out, three cops were subduing my brothers. Broken glass shimmered at their feet and both their faces were bloated and bloody. They got carted down to detox and I had to drive drunk to get them out and home. The cop kept asking me if I was alright. Being forced to defend my family drunk as a definition of alright was not the answer I think he was looking for. I said, sure. I said, whatever. They fell asleep together in the back seat. I wanted to plow the car into a telephone pole doing ninety. That was the last time I saw Mike and Tommy before the funeral. Before the will reading. Reading makes me think speaking makes me think of speeches makes me think of the eulogies. Tommy, the oldest, went first. He started with an awkward joke about knowing his dad his entire life. It was received by muffled coughs. It's a good thing Dad was dead because this would have killed him. Tommy talked about a man with vision. A man with vision enough to ensure his sons fell into life on both feet. Tommy was so full of shit. So was I. I talked about Dad like he was Jesus. I said we were lucky to have him and his support. I said I wished he was still with us to see his sons carry on his legacy. In my head, the word legacy was replaced with cross. I pinched my leg through my pants pocket and squirted out a couple tears just in case there were any singe women in the crowd. Mike made everybody gasp. Mike was honest. Mike said the old man was a monster with control issues. Mike said he thought his dad's dick was microscopic. Mike said he made his sons do what he couldn't and thought he should burn in Hell for it. Mike took out a flask and drank hard from it in front of God and everyone else. They had to escort him off the pulpit. I thought he and the priest were going to throw punches. I swear. Swearing makes me think of Tommy makes me think of the phone call makes me think of poor dumb Mike. Poor dumb Mike is screaming at me. He's screaming about how Tommy was a pussy and that's why he shot him. Somewhere, in some hotel room, Tommy is cold and dead. I was always jealous of Tommy. Mike keeps screaming. I try to look up, but he drives the gun barrel harder in my temple. Mike wants the money. In my head, I hear a phone ring. Mike wants out. Mike is sick of putting lipstick and mascara and suits and ugly dresses on corpses. In my head, in another hotel room, I pick up the phone. Tommy is crying and hysterical and saying "fuck" every other word. Tommy tells me about Dad's autopsy. He tells me about when the ambulance found Dad. He tells me to look into Dad's bank accounts. I hang up. I go to the bank while Mike visits Tommy and shoots him. At the bank, I find out Dad had massive Social Security checks. I find out Dad took out equally massive withdrawals. I find myself putting it all together. I find myself laughing as I head back to my hotel room. I take out all of the scotch from the mini-bar and empty out the personable little orange bottle of Vicodin. It goes down my throat and makes me feel warm inside. No note. Just a knock at the door and a gun being shoved in my face. No explanation. Explanations make me think of Mike makes me think of being down on my knees and all-knowing makes me think of screaming at Mike to shut the fuck up. He actually stops babbling about whatever bat shit crazy new rant he's on and looks down at me. I tell him Dad doesn't have any money. I tell him the 911 call was from a stripper. Dad died at The Oral Office. Dad died getting a blowjob from a two grand hooker with an edible name. Dad died with a heady armful of black tar heroin in him. Dad was living the life. Until he died. Died makes me think of blackness makes me think of my vision makes me think of "The End Is Nigh." Mike backs off and makes a face like a fish out of water. He spins around and screams words no churchgoer would want have written here. He says motherfucker. He says cocksucker. He says whore-licker. I think he made that last one up. My head feels like a pillowcase full of rocks and Mike jamming the gun back at it isn't helping. He says we'll both die poor. He says I'll go first. I tell him, I mumbled at him, that I think I beat him to it. I say there will be no twenty five. I say Elvis has left the building. Before I shuffle off this mortal coil, I see a bright light and hear thunder. I hear what could be angels singing. I must be dead I think. Thinking makes me think of…well, thinking. It means I'm still alive. The room is stark white and sterile and makes me nauseous. The backless paper gown makes my ass and legs itch. I open my eyes and instead of the afterlife, I'm greeted by two oily, lupine cops. They tell me both my brothers are dead. They tell me what I thought was an out-of-body trip to Heaven was the gunfire of Mike blowing his brains out. I say, sure. I say, whatever. They tell me it's over. They tell me I can leave the hospital when I fill out a statement. My statement. When the cops hand me the form and the nurse hands me a pen I write: My Dad was an asshole. A drug-addled, horny asshole. My brothers were assholes. Now they're dead and I have no one left. I'm an asshole. I just want enough morphine to take home to get the job done. I just want to be left alone and not told what to do or who to defend. I write, I hate it here. I sign it and hand it back to them. They look at me as I ask the nurse if they have any morphine they can give me. I smile and say I'm in a lot of pain.