by Jeff Strand
“When does your cousin get here?” Mel asks.
“Tomorrow.”
“That’s crazy, dude. I wouldn’t give up half my room.”
“It’s not like I have a choice.”
“Make him sleep out in a tent.”
“It’ll be fine.”
“You’ll have a roommate when you go to college,” says Clarissa. “Might as well get used to it.”
“He’s not going to ask to be part of the band, is he?” asks Mel. “Because we’re a well-oiled machine, and we can’t go messing up the dynamic.”
“One, he’s not going to ask to join the band,” I say. “Two, we’re not a well-oiled machine. We’re a decently oiled machine. And the way I look at it, my cousin Blake moving in means one extra friendly face in the crowd every week.”
“He’d better not cramp our style. We’ve worked hard on it,” Mel grumbles.
“If he cramps our style, I will personally make sure he’s removed from the premises.”
“Are you sure he’s not going to say, ‘Hey, I play the harp. Can I be in the band?’”
“A harp might be an interesting addition to our sound,” says Clarissa.
“Stop worrying about him,” I tell Mel. “If anything, it sounds like he’ll want to join Chess Club.”
“Oh, he can’t join Chess Club. We’ve got the perfect blend of skill levels and personalities. If he joins, he’ll throw off the whole balance.”
“You’re not a very welcoming person,” says Clarissa.
“I’ve never claimed to be. That’s why Rod is the one who welcomes our audience to the show.”
“It’ll be fine,” I say.
“What if he steals from you?”
“I’ll know it was him.”
“What if he steals stuff you won’t miss until he’s gone?”
“If I don’t notice it’s gone for three months, I don’t need it.”
“What if he robs you blind on the last day?” Mel asks.
“You seem very upset about this,” says Clarissa. “Do you need a hug?”
“I’m just watching out for Rod.”
“I’m not gonna lie,” I say. “When my mom first told me the news, I was kind of annoyed. But really, what’s the big deal? So my cousin’s staying with us for a while. So what? I barely know anything about him. Of all the bad things that could happen to me, this is pretty low on the list.”
“I suppose it’s not as bad as getting buried alive,” says Mel.
“Nope.”
“And it’s not as bad as, like, getting punched in the stomach when you weren’t expecting it and you’d just had spicy food.”
“Nope.”
“And it’s not as bad as the sun exploding. That would cause problems for everyone.”
“Anyway,” I say before he can come up with a fourth example, “it’s not ideal, but I’ve come to terms with it. So let’s just worry about making the world rock!”
We resume playing. I like to think that we’re rocking so hard that the house is coming apart, but the cracks in the wall were already there.
Nine songs later (our songs are short), Clarissa stops playing. “Is that your doorbell?”
We stop to listen. The doorbell rings again, so I press the button to open the garage door.
There’s a U-Haul truck parked in our driveway and a man standing at our front door. He walks over to the garage and smiles. “Hi,” he says, “I’m looking for Louise Conklin.”
“She’s at work. I’m her son.”
“Okay, I’m the mover. I’ve got stuff here from Blake Montgomery.”
“Excuse me?” I ask.
The man points to the truck. “I’m delivering boxes from California.”
“Oh. Uh, okay.”
I follow him to the back of the truck. The man slides open the door, revealing that it’s completely filled with cardboard boxes.
“How many of those are his?” I ask.
“All of ’em.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Yeah, I drove all the way from California to Florida to play a little joke. Got nothing better to do with my time. I hope it was funny enough.”
“You’re being sarcastic now, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, well, huh. I guess just put the boxes in the garage for now. We’ll move our stuff out of the way.”
The man shakes his head. “I only drive. I don’t unload.”
Mel, Clarissa, and I unload forty-two boxes from the back of the truck and stack them in the garage. Only three of them are light boxes. For a few, Mel and I have to say, “Um, Clarissa, could you get this one?” Several require teamwork.
When we’re finally done, the man stands there expectantly.
“What?” I ask.
“Tip?”
“Nah.”
He gets back in the U-Haul and drives away.
“What do you think are in these?” asks Mel.
“Bricks,” I say.
“Are you sure he’s not moving in permanently?”
“I’m not sure of anything anymore.”
“Did you know he was sending all this?” asks Clarissa.
“Nope,” I say. “I sure didn’t.”
“Seems like a lot of stuff for three months,” Mel adds.
“It certainly does.”
We all stand there for a moment.
“Well,” says Mel, “I’m sure there’s a logical explanation for all this stuff, besides him planning to completely take over your home. Is it safe to say that practice is over now that there’s no room for us in your garage?”
“Yeah, we’re done for today. Blake must not know that we have a small house. He’ll have to put most of this in a storage unit. He’ll be here tomorrow, so we’ll figure it out then.”
“Good luck to you, dude.”
“Thanks.” And I mean it.
• • •
“Hey, Mom,” I say when she walks in the front door. “Come over here. I want to show you something.”
I take her into the garage.
“Where did all this come from?” she asks.
“Blake sent them across the country in a U-Haul.”
“All of them?” She looks a bit bewildered.
“Yep. Especially the really heavy ones.”
Mom frowns. “That seems like something we should have discussed beforehand.”
“You’d think so.”
“Is this everything he owns?”
“I don’t know what he owns.”
“I’ll talk to Aunt Mary.”
“Kinda late,” I say. “Blake’s stuff is already here.”
“You’re right. You’re right. Sorry about this, Rod.”
“Is my cousin a weirdo?”
“No, he’s not a weirdo.”
“Don’t get me wrong. I love weirdos. I’m a proud weirdo. Normal people are boring. But there’s good weird, and there’s bad weird. And sending forty-two heavy boxes of stuff without telling us first feels like Blake might be the bad kind.”
“We’ll get this sorted out,” Mom assures me. “The next three months are going to be fun, I promise.”
I’m not sure I believe her.
3.
Mom has to work, so I volunteered to pick Blake up at the airport. If I hadn’t volunteered, she would have asked me to do it, but by preemptively making the offer, I get credit for volunteering to do something I would’ve had to do anyway. It’s all about the timing.
I drive into the Arrivals area, which is filled with airport employees blowing whistles (Whistles are fun!) but doing little to actually direct traffic. I see Blake sitting on a bench at the end of the row. He doesn’t look much different than when he was a little kid. He’s still short, a bit ch
ubby, and he has perfectly combed blond hair. His face is extremely red.
Blake isn’t carrying any luggage, which is a relief.
However, there’s a porter standing next to him with a baggage cart that has, I’d estimate, a dozen suitcases. Good thing those don’t belong to Blake. That would be ridiculous. Absurd and ridiculous. Just plain wacky.
I pull up to the curb beside him, put the car in park, and get out. “Hi, Blake!” I say, waving.
Blake regards me the way you’d look at somebody who has long, wet boogers dangling from each nostril that are flapping in the wind. I do a quick nose check to make sure that’s not the case. My nostrils are clear.
“Hello, Rodney,” he says. “Is that your car?”
It seems like an odd question, since he literally just saw me drive up in this particular automobile. It’s like he’s offering me the opportunity to say, “Oh, goodness gracious no. I don’t drive this old thing! My real car is currently having the stereo system upgraded, so I was forced to borrow this one from the junkyard at the last minute.”
“Yep, it’s all mine,” I say.
Blake frowns. “Hmm.”
Hey, I’m proud to own a car! I don’t have to listen to Blake hmm-ing mine. “Do you have any luggage?” I ask.
Blake gestures to the porter.
“All of that?”
Blake nods. “It’s for three long months.”
“I know, but… I… A lot of boxes showed up at…” I decide that this conversation can wait. “I’m not sure we can fit all of that in my car.”
“I’m sure we can’t,” says Blake. “That’s why I assumed you’d bring a more appropriate vehicle.”
“We can make it work,” I counter. If we fill the trunk, the back seat, make Blake sit on a couple of suitcases, and strap the rest to the roof, we might be able to fit everything, though my car probably won’t move.
“We can store some of the luggage for you,” says the porter. “You could make a second trip.”
Blake sighs. “I’ve never been fond of second trips.”
“It’ll be fine,” I say. “I don’t live that far from here.”
“I suppose I could hire another car and driver,” says Blake.
“It’s really not necessary,” I insist. I open the trunk, pull the first suitcase off the cart, and slide it in the back. As I pick up the second suitcase, I notice that Blake remains seated on the bench.
He’s not going to sit there and watch me load his luggage, is he?
Apparently, he is.
I’m not sure if I should say something or go ahead and load up the car. I decide that since we’ve got a quarter of a year together, it’s best not to get off to a tense start.
I’m able to fit about half of his suitcases into my car. “Okay,” I say since Blake has yet to stand. “I think we’re ready to go.”
Blake sighs again.
He still hasn’t gotten up. Does he think I’m going to carry him to the car? Nobody could be that lazy, right?
I suddenly wonder if Blake uses a wheelchair to get around. Am I the most horrible person in the world for thinking he was lazy? Am I a monster?
No. Of course not. My mom would’ve said something before I picked him up at the airport. And there’s no wheelchair nearby.
Finally, Blake stands, moving as if a dozen steel rhinoceroses are strapped to his back. He slowly waddles over to my car and gets in the front seat, grunting with the effort.
I close the trunk and get in the car. Blake hasn’t shut his door.
“Your door’s still open,” I tell him, trying to be helpful.
“I’m aware.”
“I thought you might consider closing it so we can go.”
“Hmm.”
Is he testing me? Maybe he’s trying to figure out if, during these crucial first minutes of our relationship, he can make me his personal servant. Or he may be messing with me. I can’t tell. Either way, even though I don’t want to pick a fight with the guy, I have to assert myself.
“Look,” I say, “my job is to welcome you and make you feel at home. I’m happy to do it. But this isn’t the kind of deal where I open and close car doors for you like a limo driver.”
“I definitely didn’t mistake this for a limo.”
“It’s a perfectly good car,” I insist.
Blake runs his index finger along the dashboard. “Could be cleaner.”
“Close the door, Blake.”
The porter walks over and closes the door for him. Blake gives me a smug grin.
I glare at him. “Do you need somebody to fasten your seat belt for you?”
Blake puts on his own seat belt. One of the airport employees angrily blows his whistle at me, and I drive us out of the Arrivals area.
“So how was your flight?” I ask.
Blake shrugs. “It was an airplane ride. You know it didn’t crash because I’m here with you now, so what else is there to say about it?”
I have the sudden realization that my cousin Blake may, in fact, be a jerk.
“Well,” I say, “you could have been sitting behind a shrieking baby. Or you could have sat next to Tom Hanks. Those are the kind of details you could have shared.”
“Why would Tom Hanks be on my flight?”
“Why wouldn’t he be? You don’t think Tom Hanks has millions of frequent flier miles?”
“I suppose.”
“All I’m saying is that there are plenty of interesting things that could happen when you’re flying that don’t involve fiery deaths.”
“I’m not a fan of meaningless small talk,” Blake informs me. “How was your drive to the airport? See? That was annoying, wasn’t it?”
“My drive over was fine. No traffic problems.”
“I didn’t care about your answer, and you didn’t care about sharing it with me.”
“Are you saying that we shouldn’t talk for three months?”
Blake shakes his head. “I believe people should talk about important things.”
“I’m all for that. But as human beings in, y’know, society, there are ways that we communicate. I’m not going to pick you up after not having seen you for years and immediately ask, ‘So, Blake, do you believe in life after death?’”
“I’d prefer that.”
“No, you wouldn’t. You’d be weirded out.”
“Very well.”
Very well? Nobody says “very well” in the real world, do they? I wonder how much trouble I’d get in if I drove over to Departures and shoved him out the door.
“Are you messing with me?” I ask.
“Why would you think that?”
“Because you’re acting like somebody who’s messing with somebody. People don’t actually behave like that. I’m not sure if you know this, but your behavior is really, really abnormal. As in, you are literally the strangest person I’ve ever encountered, and I’m in a punk rock band.”
“You’re in a band?”
“Yeah.”
Blake nods his approval. “That’s cool.”
“Thanks.”
“Sorry,” says Blake. “I don’t interact with people much.”
“I can see that.”
“I get nervous when I meet new people, even though you’re not technically a new person, and I don’t present the best version of myself. I can be kind of odd.”
“Yeah, I picked up on that.” Okay, I decide that if Blake is willing to admit his oddness, I should forgive him and move on. “It’s okay. I’m not the most socially amazing person either.”
“Your car is fine.”
“Thank you.”
“It smells nice.”
“It shouldn’t smell like anything.”
“Maybe it’s your deodorant.”
“Let’s switch topics,”
I suggest.
“Sorry. Was that creepy?”
“It was getting there.”
“Sometimes my oddness crosses over into creepiness.”
“It’s fine,” I insist.
“I’m not usually the kind of person who compliments deodorant. Just so you know.”
“Here’s what we’re going to try,” I say. “We’re not going to talk for the rest of the drive to my house. I’ll put on some music, and we’ll listen to it. That’ll give us time to recalibrate our brains and make sure they’re in good working order before we start talking again. Sound okay?”
Blake nods.
I turn on the stereo. One of my favorite bands, Infamously Vicious, blasts the song “Rabid to the Core.”
Blake scowls. Two seconds in and I can tell he isn’t enjoying this song.
“That’s not your band, is it?” he asks.
“No.”
“Good.”
“They’re not trying for mass appeal,” I explain.
“Clearly.”
“It’s not important to be liked by everybody,” I say. “The worst thing in the world is to be mediocre.”
“I completely agree,” says Blake. “But if there’s a line in the air that says, ‘mediocre,’ it’s probably better to be above it than below it.”
I turn off the music.
“You didn’t have to turn it off,” says Blake. “It was bad, but it wasn’t literally hurting me.”
“We’re going to try silence,” I say. “No music, no talking, simply the sound of the wind.”
“You mean the sound of your engine.”
“Whatever.”
“You should get it checked out.”
“I will.”
“Automobiles aren’t supposed to sound like this.”
“My car is fine.”
“I actually felt safer with the music playing,” says Blake. “There’s a lot of stuff going on with this car. I assume the only reason your ‘check engine’ light isn’t on is because it’s burnt out.”
“I thought we were going to try silence.”
“I thought we were too, but your car had other ideas.”
I turn the stereo back on and eject the CD. “Fine. You pick a radio station.”
Blake goes through the entire FM dial and then through the entire AM dial and then through most of the FM dial again before choosing something Auto-Tuned and horrible.
