A week later, sometime before or after dawn, I’ll leave my brother a message that he’ll delete before taking the time to listen to it. I’ll tell him: I’m sorry I couldn’t help him with his paper… That he’s smarter than I ever was… And that when I come back from the city––yes––we’ll watch the new Captain America movie… Even though I think Marvel’s falling off…
Then.
Because I’m sleepy. Or confused. Or that other thing that isn’t much of a secret.
I’ll lose the thread.
And start babbling: Throw out my old hockey pads… But save my helmet… I’ll need that… Gotta have that… Bury me in that helmet… Because I’ve heard things get rough in heaven… We’ll need mouth guards, too… Cause there’s a game… In heaven there’s a game… Of… Paintball… ?… Yes!… Between the clouds… And God has the best gun… Of course… Of course… And… And… And losers fall straight to Hell… And we don’t want to go to Hell… Buddy… So, we gotta come correct… With paint grenades… And football cleats… And better armor… Iron Man armor… The expensive kind we’ll order off eBay… Vibranium chest plates… Nanotechnology… And we’ll have to die at the exact same… So that we can be on the same team… Same color… … Same cloud… … … … Call me back… Captain Kill… My little Rosemary… Hail-Mary… We’ll take care of all of it… Run our shit… You know… I take the middle… And you… … … … … … … You go left, buddy… … … … Call me… … Call me… Call me… … … … … … Hey man… Call your brother… … With great power comes great responsibility… Ha-ha… … I do want you to come visit me… Call me, you ass… … … … … …
Sam Berman is a short story writer who lives in Chicago and works at Lake Front Medical with Nancy, Andrew, and Reuben–all terrific coworkers.
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