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Nada Nada Nada


Dr. Shifaqer: Tell me what’s on your mind at this exact moment, son.   I promise I won’t bite.


Alex: (Fuck you, Dr. Shitfucker. Take that voodoo therapy elsewhere. This shit is worse than school.)


DS: …it doesn’t have to be about anything in particular. Just talk. Whatever comes out comes out…


A: (Nada to say. Not to you, at least. Nada you can tell me about me. All this psychobabble bullshit. Please. My mom may swear by it, that’s only because she’s cracked. Her brain be fucked. Loopty doo! Put a straightjacket on her she’s done, son.                         Not me, though. I’m fine. Shiiiiiiit.   Nada Nada Nada.)


DS: Your brother. Tell me about Reuben. What was he like, for instance?


A: Fat. Like, big as a motherfuckin house yo.             (Look at this goddamn office. You ain’t read all these books. Ain’t nobody read that many books. Smart motherfuckers think they fooling somebody filling all their rooms with books. I bet if I opened up half these books not one motherfuckin crease would I find. Not even Reuben read that many books, and he smartest dude I ever knew. Twice much as you. Never have as many books but he read em all.)


DS: Did you ever pick on him about that? Maybe say some things you wish you hadn’t?


A: Everybody did, and when they did I whooped their asses. I’m his brother. That’s my job. (Everrrry body talked shit. Hard not to. Never seen an easier target. But I did what I had to do. Womped many a fool for that kid. Sure I talked shit too, but only to his face, and only to him. Only between us. Never behind his back. I hear a whisper, some wise motherfucker crackin shit, they meet the ball of my fist. Pay out in teeth. Only I get to do that, you know. I’m his brother. That’s my right, not theirs. I’m his brother, and he was mine.)


DS: So you were protective of him?


A: Sure.           (Somebody had to be. Old man sure didn’t care. He probably wanted him to get beat up. Wanted him to get angry so he’d play sports. Get angry. Get his revenge on the field. But that kid couldn’t fight. That kid. Couldn’t hurt a fly. Literally. Used to escort bugs out of the house in Dixie cups. Soft, real soft. Tried to teach him how to fight once in the creek. Yelling: Do something bout it! Throw a fuckin punch, kid. He just fell to his knees, begged me to stop hittin at him. Soft. Too soft for this world.)


DS: Did you ever do anything to him that you aren’t proud of?


A: (I’m his brother. Of course I did.)


DS: I’m told you weren’t at the funeral.


A: (Funerals are bullshit. Look, people die and they’re dead. They don’t care who shows up to the after party. They’re fuckin dead! It’s pointless. Funerals are selfish. They’re not for the dead. It’s for corporations, so they can make money. Coffins. Fancy ceremony. All that shit. The dead are dead: what are they gonna do with fuckin flowers?)


DS: I’m told this [crinkled tinfoil hat] was found at his grave. Do you know anything about this?


A: (Fuck. Off.)





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