Optimistically Cynical: A Short Story Compilation- 1

THE PRICE OF ASPIRATION

It's early evening, just dark enough for the street lights to flicker on, when a low, heavy metal sound begins to play inexplicably. My head bumps with the music, then my brain catches up with the rest of me.

It's my cell phone, ringing in my pocket. I turn on my blinker and pull to the side of the road. I absolutely refuse to deal with a cell phone when I'm driving. I open the antiquated flip phone and see I had a new text message. It's from my younger brother.

I open the message. "Come over," is all it said.

I press the speed dial option and holds the receiver a few inches from my ear.

The line opens. "Dude you have got to learn to text," my brother's voice comes over the phone.

"Yeah well, I don't like it," I respond.

"That's only because you can't type for shi-" my brother returns.

"Ah, ah." I interject before he can finish the curse.

"Ship. I was going to say ship," he insists in a half-hearted fashion.

"Sure you were," I shoot back.

"Where are you?" my brother asks.

"I'm on my way home," I answer.

"Well forget that and come on over," he persists in his cause.

"Why?" is my curt response.

"Because I, that is, oh," he trips over his words. "Just come on and stop being a whiny little bi-"

Again I interject. "Ah, ah."

"Biscuit. I was going to say biscuit," my brother mockingly defends his choice of words. "You know, you really need to stop that. People curse."

"Yeah, well I don't," I inform him of facts he already knows. "And I'd prefer not to hear it."

"Anyway," he resumes. "Just come on."

"Is she there?" my brother doesn't need anymore description to know I'm talking about his girlfriend.

"She is," he admits. "But come on anyway."

"You know I can't," I reply to his seeming command.

"Yes you can," my brother presses. "Look you're in control. Besides if you don't I'll just fill your messages with creative internet images of sick sh, I mean stuff."

The conversation doesn't need to continue. I know my brother and that's no threat, that is a promise.

I surrender. "I'm on my way," I breathe

"Good," is all he says.

The line goes dead. I close the phone and slide it back in my pocket. I check myself in the mirror, I'm already starting to perspire. I activate my turn signal's other direction and pull back on the road. It will take me at least forty minutes, plenty of time to suffer.

I wipe the beads of sweat from my head.

"So, your younger, yet more successful brother called you over, did he?" the voice is coming from me, but it isn't me.

"Yes," I reply simply.

"And like the trained doggy you come when called," the other voice observes.

"Something like that," is my dismissive response.

"When do you plan on growing a backbone?" the other voice queries.

"It's on back-order," I return in jest.

A moment of silence, not long enough.

"You know she's going to be there," my other self carries on.