Author's note:
This story may be best read if you're like me and haven't seen most Two and a Half Men episodes. But maybe I hit the jackpot and anyone can read it. Anyway, if you've decided to read, enjoy it. :D
Alan
I hadn't meant to stumble upon it. It had just happened. I mean, I'm still in shock over it. This whole other emotional side of my brother outside of the bottle that he coddles like a teddy bear. The words were blurry in front of me after I had read them. But it all makes sense now. The constant need to be drunk, the sleeping with women and not committing. It's all so clear now. He was escaping. Charlie has been escaping his whole life, and yet he has not taken the plunge.
He has not broken free from her. And I believe it is because of me. He doesn't want me to know. Because if he runs away from her; never sees or talks about her again, I would ask why. And he would have to tell me someday. It would make Charlie not a man, but that boy again.
That helpless, drowning boy . . . that I never truly knew until yesterday.
Charlie
How could she.
That was the thought that was always in Charlie's mind when he woke up. Then he would turn over, see the hot girl on his side of the bed, wrapped in a sheet, sometimes with a satisfied smile on her face and those thoughts would melt away.
Charlie's vodka was kept in small containers in the dresser drawer and he took gulps every morning. Somehow, Berta knew about them because when he looked in the drawer, the remaining ones were gone. And he hadn't the heart to confront Berta. She was a big lady. She would crush his balls with her fists of fat. And he was . . .
Well, ashamed. Yet another thought that Charlie could think, but would never say.
Charlie could never drink more than one small bottle in the morning. Just enough to simmer his thoughts and wane his personality. Yeah, he was a drunk. Yeah, he cared a little. Just not much; not enough, really.
"You want to get breakfast?" The girl in his bed, whose name he actually remembered, had rested her hand on his bicep. What was it with girls and physical contact to get what they wanted? Especially breakfast, Charlie had noticed.
"Can't we just lie here?" Charlie asked. "Cuddle. Fuck. Cuddlefuck." Her hand began a massage. What was it with women and their hands that made him so fucking horny?
"I worked up quite the appetite last night," she purred, beginning to lean her face toward his, her lips twitching, itching to get to his. He sleepily looked at her. Morning vodka still untouched.
The woman—girl, compared to Charlie age—was not helping.
"Okay." Charlie was not in the mood to argue. "Okay." He sealed the deal on the kiss and got himself out of bed, letting the covers rest on him a bit. Thanks to his photograph-freaky girlfriend from his 30s, he knew what he looked like sitting in bed, covers shrouding his penis before he would arise. He looked like a fucking sex god.
God's gift to women. His mom had said that. And Charlie remembered many occasions getting out of bed the same, covers concealing him. Before he would proudly arch his back, shuck on an undershirt and boxers and say he would be right back.
14-year-old Jake and Berta were downstairs when he ambled down. "Mornin'," Charlie mumbled as per usual.
"Hey," Jake said with the usual perkiness. Which was equivalent to that of cow moo. In front of him were his Cocoa Puffs.
"Hey, that actually looks good," Charlie grabbed the box."
"Hey!" Jake stared hard at his uncle. "That's mine. Get your own."
"My house. My Cocoa Puffs." Charlie tapped the box with his fingers for emphasis.
"Didn't we go over this a long time ago? Mi casa es su casa. Cereal was bought for me."
"Yeah." Charlie muttered. "Right. Just give me the goddamned cereal." Then Charlie looked down at his hands after seeing Berta's amused face. "Oh, right. Besides, you got enough there. And the fat in your bloated stomach should hold you."
"Hey." Jake had the "flirtatious" look on his face. "More for the ladies."
"I'm with you there," Berta chimed in.
Jake back to the Cocoa Puff swallowing, Charlie took the opportunity to quickly swipe a beer behind Jake's back. "Right," was all Charlie said. But then added, "You two have fun—what am I saying?" Behind him, Berta chuckled.
Charlie, slightly out of breath from clamoring up the steps, stood in front of the door, holding the box in front of his chest. "Cocoa Puffs for two?
"Sure, but you got no spoon," Renee pointed out. "No bowl.
"I'll feed you Cocoa Puffs," Charlie said, stepping away from the door, slowly closing it. "And I think I know how I'll eat mine." He winked and Renee slowly moved her body to the head of the bed, the blanket sliding down.
When it stopped short of her belly button, Charlie knew he'd have fun getting the rest of it off. And the hand behind his back went slack and dropped the empty whisky bottle to the carpet.
Alan
It's all right here. I wish I could forget about it. I wish I could say Charlie made it up but he was never a writer. Well, I mean, he is a writer but just not in that way. The only reason Charlie passed high school was because I wrote most of his senior composition essays. I was happy to do it, and I can't say why, not even now when all we should have is honesty.
No, I'm not being honest right now. Being honest would mean going to Charlie and confronting him with everything. But I told you why I can't. Just can't do it. Every time I read this, I just feel like I'm dying a little more. I mean, I almost feel . . . feel like Charlie . . . scumbag of the Earth, yet one of the best people I know, oddly enough. I want to ignore this. But I can't. The words are so poignant.
Maybe something made me go back to the house. Maybe I knew all along. And I did and ignored it. That would make me sick if I found out that I did know. Repressed memory and all that junk is a crutch. I might as well call myself a loser if I made myself ignore it all this time. Maybe I am a loser just sitting here, letting my thoughts out in a stream of consciousness, of sorts.
Wait, no. I don't think so. Because I have a choice. And I don't know what to do. Because it won't be Charlie I'll be talking to. The Charlie I talk to isn't the Charlie I discovered.
25 hours before . . . 9 a.m.
"Thank you," Alan said. "For letting me look around. My son never knew where I grew up. I wanted to take pictures." In front of him, the homeowners smiled courteously. "I'll just let myself through—thanks, again." Alan couldn't help but furrow his brow. What a strange, silent family this was. But Alan knew: Dif'rent strokes for dif'rent folks. And he figured it was best to just make his way through the house. The bathrooms. The guest rooms. The bedrooms. The kitchen. In each, Alan leaned against the wall and took a few pictures, not wanting to risk taking any close-ups; the family was following him around as it was.
"There is one area we didn't touch," the father said. "The basement. We just throw things down there. You probably know how that is. It seems to me that you haven't touched it, either."
Alan politely forced a chuckle and ran his hand through his coifed hair. "No. No, we didn't. I'll get pictures, though. I'm pretty big with nostalgia." He made eye contact with them all and regretted it. They seemed ready for him to pull out a gun and Alan wondered why they even bothered letting him in the house. But they had done so and were decent enough not to accuse outright of malicious intent. So he put a compliant look on his face and looked at them wide eyes.
"Show me the way."
Alan
The paper, here, was quite clear. He can explain it away as doing something for someone else, making it someone else's problem. Deflecting, like he always does. But I know that's not it. And I will tell him this, that is, when I get up the nerve to go to him. I will. Trust me, I will. I need time to wrap my head around this.
Alan, I need you to close your eyes. Close your eyes. Now picture you, in the room with Charlie. Picture yourself telling him that you know. How do you think he will react?
I—I think he will—
Alan, be Charlie. Say what he will say. Don't say what you think he will say. Keep your eyes closed.
Pretend I'm Charlie.
Yes. The next words that come out of your mouth, I want to be Charlie's.
That wasn't for me, you doofus. That was for a friend I had when I was younger. Of course, we don't even talk now but it helped him. Then he gave it back to me.
And do you think that is a good reaction, or a bad reaction?
Good. Good. I mean, he isn't tearing things apart. But—but this is all in my head, Rose.
I know, but you have known Charlie for so many years that it could happen. You should talk to him; get closure.
Therapist talk. Closure. I know. I know about closure. I know I should stop thinking and just talk to him. I need to get it out of him.
If you want, I could be there with you.
No—no. I know how Charlie feels about you and that would not be a good idea. Need to breathe and think how I am going to tell him—ask him . . .
About Mom.
Less than 25 hours before . . . 9:30 a.m.
Alan saw the basement as he remembered it, and it gave him comfort of sorts. The old light bulbs with a string to turn them on still worked.
"Did you ever change these?" Alan asked.
"Never." The father seemed proud of this but that was the end of the discussion and Alan began taking pictures. So he was taking pictures of septic systems. Grime and mold. Substances he wasn't sure were grime and mold. He leaned against the wall to take a picture of the entire basement from the back area.
"How long did you yourself live here?" The daughter asked. She was around 17 years old; her eyes searching for answers.
Alan was looking into the camera. Sometimes his photos didn't turn out quite as clear as the viewing lens made them out to be. "Until I was 20. Then I got my own place and switched colleges. It was quite the change in my life."
The mother's hands, Alan saw, were in tight fists. He figured she was nervous. Although one woman Charlie had dated knew kung fu and had used it on Alan when he had inadvertently offended her. But his eyes went right back to daughter, who was making small talk about her college search.
Alan went somewhat to the right for another angle. "The scholar dorms are not all cracked up to be. You still have to go to the library. Everyone drinks. Number four rule on my list of college commandments. Not saying you have to drink because I said everyone drinks and I'll stop talking about that—you give any thought to GPA dorms? They are different than scholar dorms. You have to have a certain GPA." Alan now leaned against the wall, pushing against it with his hand. If his rapport was with the daughter, so be it. He'd be nice until he was accused of pedophilia.
"I'm just taking my Standardized Aptitude Tests," the oldest boy said. "If they are anything like college, I'm going to like it." His attitude toward Alan was more forced. The youngest, on the other hand, just wandered the basement, staying close to the family.
"Yeah, S.-"
"They sound much better when you call them standardized aptitude tests," the oldest boy argued.
"Owen!" The mother snapped at him, making Alan realize that she probably did know kung fu. Or at least some type of martial art that would make him part of the basement floor décor. "We don't need your smart remarks in front of guests."
"He's not a guest!" He retorted. "He's just taking pictures."
"Look," Alan said, holding up his hands. "No need to argue. Standardized Aptitude . . . Test. Good name. Gives it more honor. Prestige." Alan snapped another photo. He had to be almost done. It was a basement, after all.
"Hey, check this out." The youngest boy had been going around the basement, treading his fingers against the wall. "There's a loose brick here. All the rest are stuck to the wall."
"Maybe there is something in it," The father said. "I know we didn't touch it."
"Let's see." Alan quickly stowed the camera and came forth. "No, wait. I'll put my hand in. For all I know with my family there's some deadly thing in there." Alan waded his hand in and frowned as he felt a few thicknesses of paper, curved in the hole, along with the years of gathered dirt and dust. Alan bent down to get better leverage. "Just paper," he said. He looked back at them, smiled and then looked again toward the concealed hole. Carefully sliding the paper out, he held them in his hands. He had pictured himself blowing on them like in the movies, but they were clean; legible.
"This—this is my brother's handwriting."
"You sound shocked," the girl amusedly remarked.
"Yeah. He doesn't write.
The younger one was incredulous. "He never went to school?"
"No, he—he just doesn't handwrite . . . he . . . types . . ." The basement fell into silence and then into suspension. Alan's hands filled with white paper, scrawled in Charlie's writing. Alan knew they were murmuring, but he didn't care enough to listen, or overhear.
"Mr. Harper?" He finally heard.
The papers trembled once in Alan's hands.
"I got to go. I'm sorry." Alan's body rushed out, his mind in tow.
No, it wasn't. It couldn't. It wasn't. He was surprised they did not rush out after him. But Alan couldn't leave. He had to sit. And he read the first sheet over. And again. It was as if Charlie had written calculus. Alan could not comprehend it.
When the family got to him, Alan was consumed in himself, his face in the palm of his hand, bent forward.
"Mr. Harper." That voice again. And Alan realized he was now overstaying his welcome, which did extend to self-pity. And external pity. He rushed out and jangled the car keys from his pocket. Such a nice family inside; such a juxtaposition to his own.
Alan locked himself in the car and banged the steering wheel and now let himself sob. Just needed a moment on what he now figured was the worst day of his life. Oh, Charlie could write. He just needed the motivation. Alan now realized the reason behind Charlie the man. He now was living simultaneously Charlie the man and Charlie the little boy.
A boy you made into a false man
Too soon it was
You walking into the room brought pause
Looking at me with a mouth that told me lies
Undressing me with your threatening eyes
How could you turn what should be pleasure
Into a constant pain that you caused with your putrid treasure
A mother should nurture; not sit upon you and wait
Until the explosion that would eventually expel more hate.
Life giver, who I should adore
My innocence she taketh and bore
Nevertheless, I don't want to be scared anymore.
My body used
My soul shattered
And my boyhood hadn't mattered.
You said I was special; that I was not like the other
And touched me like no real or worthy mother.
Here I am, bundled in my cozy covers
Frightfully waiting for you to use me to enjoy more selfish shudders.
Charlie. Come to me, my dear. Show mummy you love her.