The Man Who Watched the World End (16 page)

Every once in a while the sister I was hooking up with would joke that
the other Canadian had dibs on Andrew. Any time she said this I felt like she was making fun of him and asked her to stop. To keep them from joking about him being a possible junky, I always made sure he was wearing long sleeve shirts when they visited. If they saw the scattered needle marks around his forearms where I was putting in the nutrient bags they would have made all the same jokes other people made about Blocks needing rehab for their addictions. The jokes got old real fast and were only uttered by people without Block relatives.

Other times they talked about what they would do if
the other sister was a Block. I never offered input. I did, though, talk about what I would do if Andrew suddenly turned into a regular person. My take on the idea was that not much would change if he did become normal, but I only said that so he wasn’t insulted and so they would respect him as a person.

It was also important to me that they understood he meant as much to me as they meant to each other. They had shared sisterly concerns all throughout their lives, gone on blind dates together, shopped for the same clothes, but I loved Andrew every bit as much as they loved each other. I don’t think they were
ever able to understand that.

The truth was that if things were different and Andrew could talk and joke around with me, move his arms and legs, help with the chores—really be there (instead of just
being there
)—there was no telling how everythingq become edo might be different. I would have someone with me now, someone to share my concerns with. He would be a set of ears to listen and a voice to offer advice. There is nothing I would like more.

Maybe we wouldn’t even be here right now if Andrew was normal.
Back when the roads were better and my little car could get us out of here, he might have thought joining one of the final communities was the better plan. If he could speak and if he voiced that opinion, we most definitely would have left. The Johnsons would have been the last people in the neighborhood instead of us. But if Andrew was normal and wanted to stay here, we would do that. Maybe the Johnsons would have been more willing to say goodbye if they knew I had someone to keep me company. Maybe they would have stopped by and offered us seats in their SUV if they weren’t worried about having another Block to take care of. I would have been more than happy to let Andrew share the middle seat with the Block sisters while I sat in the back with the luggage.

It makes me feel good to think of all the ways life would be better if I had a brother
who could experience everything with me. I imagine him laughing with me during our favorite movie scenes. I imagine him sitting up all night talking about what life was like without being able to do anything. The next time a snake startled me, Andrew would chuckle, grab it by its tail, throw it out the window, and make me feel silly for letting such a small creature wreck my nerves.

As much as I didn’t want to encourage the Canadians
’ mockery, I did imagine Andrew going to bed with the other sister. He would be a happy person. I can tell just by looking at him. We would be a team in these final days, instead of a coach and a silent onlooker. There wouldn’t be anything the two of us couldn’t face.

Unlike the Johnsons, the Canadian sisters came over to have a final meal before they moved further south. Because of the way we got along, part of me was surprised they stuck with their plan to head out of the neighborhood.
They asked if Andrew and I would like to come with them, but they weren’t sure which community they were going to and everything seemed too unknown, too undecided, to justify submitting Andrew to an adventure that might not be in his best interests. When they were gone it was back to life as normal—as normal as life could be anyway.

One of the photo albums lying around here has a couple
of pictures of the Canadian sisters. I’ll need to find it tomorrow and look through the photographs again. Andrew will be next to me when I do. When we get to their pictures I’ll be sure to remind him there is nothing different about the way the Canadian sisters loved each other and how I love him.

A yellow Labrador sunned itself on my patio today. I looked out my dining room window, as I do a thousand times each day, and it was lying there on the deteriorated deck without a care in the world. Other dogs were barking from within the forest, but this was the only one out in the open. It didn’t look concerned for its safety at all, as though wolves and bears weren’t constantly roaming for more food. I loved seeing an animal be so carefree. It would have to be a clever dog to still be alive if it chose to relax in the open by itself. The days of animals respecting the boundaries of each other’s kingdoms, even if that rule was limited to the yards where they lived, have been replaced with a daily lottery for ownership.

I
told Andrew about the dog as a way to apologize for getting mad at him today. It wasn’t anything he did (of course). The fault lies solely with me. All he does is sit in the same spot until I move him to another position, so nothing is his fault. Our situation, our isolation, our ticking clock, is no one’s fault really. Maybe that’s why I get frustrated sometimes, because there’s no one to blame for how our lives have turned out. I wouldn’t change any of the things I’ve done, but at the same time I wish things were different than they are. I have no regrets, but there’s also no satisfaction in where I am. I guess that’s why I snapped at Andrew today.

His nutrient bag is timed with his body in order to regulate the number of trips to the bathroom, but every once in a while, like today, he goes in his pants
at the most inconvenient times. All Blocks wear diapers, but the diapers can only do so much, and Andrew seems to have a knack for defeating them. Everything was fine when I walked by him on the way to the kitchen. The next time I passed, though, the familiar stench of crap was in the air. It’s a particularly putrid smell—something about the combination of chemicals in the nutrient bag really makes a Block’s shit smell like… well, shit.

“God damn it,” I yelled. “Can’t you do anything to make my life easier?” I stormed off before slamming my bedroom door. After finishing a chapter of the book I’m reading I went back out to the living room. The stench was even worse than before. That
, too, was no one’s fault except my own; it was my temper-tantrum that gave the excrement an opportunity to spread into every inch of open air. And yet I slammed my door again and left him sitting in his waste until another chapter was finished.

Alone in my quiet room, images began filtering into my head of various Blocks being abandoned and left to die while regular adults moved further south. I thought about what it would be like if I just left Andrew there on the sofa, sitting in his own filth, as I packed up my car and made my way south. Andrew would be the last living person in
Camelot. q place, chimneyIt wouldn’t take me more than five minutes to pack a bag and get into my car. But within another five minutes at least one of my car’s tires would be blown out. There’s no way I could make it on foot. Maybe I would reside in one of the millions of abandoned homes between Camelot and the next pocket of civilization. Maybe I would actually get to Miami. But I know I couldn’t bring myself to actually do those things. My short walk down the hall to my bedroom, not even enough distance to get me away from the smell of Block feces, was enough separation to make me feel ashamed of how I’d acted.

Eventually I went back out to the living room. I p
ut my arms around Andrew and told him I was sorry. The smell of shit didn’t register with me then because I was too embarrassed with my behavior. My cheeks burned at the thought of my parents looking down and seeing me snap at my poor brother. I hugged him as though I hadn’t seen him for most of his life, a POW returning home or perhaps a fugitive finally free from jail.

“I’m sorry,” I said over and over. “I won’t leave you.” When I was done
apologizing I cleaned him, put a new diaper on him, then a new pair of pants. Upon his return to the sofa, I moved him further down from where he had been so I could clean the soiled fabric on the dirty cushion. I positioned him so he had a clear view of the patio door and of the woods.

A bear came by an hour later.
Thankfully, the Labrador was gone by that time. The bear stayed there for most of the night, staring at Andrew through the glass door in a state of confusion. Andrew stared right back at it the entire time, which made the bear feel threatened. The animal didn’t know how to take this show of willpower through the glass barrier. It roared, then stood on its hind legs before banging on the doors. I panicked then because it wouldn’t take much effort for the bear to smash through the glass panels. I ran to the light switch and turned the lamp off so we were in the dark. Through it all Andrew didn’t flinch. The bear grumbled, then walked away, defeated. Andrew was the winner of another staring match!

“You beat him,” I said. “You showed him who the boss is around her
e.” I patted his shoulder. “I’m sorry I get frustrated sometimes.”

I sat down next to him, where his filth had been. The fabric cleaner was dry now. The sofa smelled better than it had in the first place; even crapping on the furniture can have its bene
fits. “It’s just tough some times,” I said.

Our view outside
is of a series of houses that were once full of families, the sound of laughter echoing from them. These houses are all dark now, empty. The only house with lights on is the one Andrew and I occupy. That’s a lot of pressure for anyone. I guess sometimes it gets tq Dedo he better of me.

“It’s just tough some times,” I told Andrew again. I laid him down on the sofa, then pulled a blanket up to his shoulders. “Good night.” I turned the rest of the lights off. Our house immediately resembled all of the other houses on the street. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I wonder, though, what will happen when the time comes, and surely it will arrive, when I can no longer reposition a soiled Andrew, when I have to clean up after him but can’t budge him. Will he just sit in his shit? What will I do when I’m too old and feeble to move him that short distance across the sofa, or to the bathroom? What quality of life would he have at that point? And is there ever a time when his quality of life could deteriorate enough that he would be better off dead than alive, even if he’s oblivious while he lives? Surely any normal adult would rather be put out of their misery than sit in their own filth while bed sores spread across the backs of their legs. It would be a matter of days before maggots made a home in his underwear. And I would be helpless to care for him.

Andrew doesn’t
understand any of these concerns. Is it fair for me to impose my fears and desires upon him? He is my brother. While that qualifies me as the person to best take care of him, there is no qualification that should allow me to make these decisions for him or anyone else. I don’t mind being responsible for Andrew’s wellbeing, but I don’t want to be responsible for deciding what the boundaries of his wellbeing are.

Everything about my existence is a
challenge: I don’t want to die first and leave Andrew by himself to starve, but I also don’t want Andrew to grow sick to the point I have to decide enough is enough. These are the things I never talked about with the Johnsons while they were here. Now that they’re gone, I wish they were still down the street so I could finally share the thoughts that keep me up at night.

I’ve been gone too
long, I need to go check on Andrew.

Alone, the days seem longer than they used to be. Some afternoons, I talk to Andrew all day so the hours seem to pass more quickly. Other times, because I never get a response, talking to him only seems to slow time down.

After twelve years,
we finally watched
Ghostbusters
again. The movie brings back too many sad memories for us to watch it on a frequent basis. I’ve been in the mood recently to reminisce (maybe part of the reason I took up writing this diary), so now seemed an appropriate time to watch as the four bumbling men captured ghosts. As a little boy, it was one of my favorite movies, but when I watched it again as a teenager, the Great De-evolution in full swing, I found myself liking it even more. For a while, I would have said it was my favorite movie of all time. Most movies are the exact opposite for me: I’ll watch them the first time and think they’re hilarious, tell a great story, or have great acting, but then when I watch them again years later I wonder what I liked so much the first time. I’m not sure if it’s part of a normal phenomenon as I grew older, my tastes changing—I won’t say maturing—or if the Great De-evolution was to blame for making me realize the childishness of my old tastes.

As a teenager, I watched
Ghostbusters
with Candace, my high school girlfriend, all the time. She liked it as much as I did, so we made sure to watch it at least once a month. We knew every line by heart. By the time she moved away with her family we could perform the entire movie by ourselves. An argument would ensue each time the movie started because we could never agree on who would get to say Bill Murray’s lines. I think we liked it so much because it showed how a couple of average guys could come up with a solution to what was terrorizing an entire city. Here they were with this newly discovered enemy to fight, one that wasn’t like anything they had seen before, and Bill Murray and his friends stepped up to the challenge to defeat the ghosts. It gave me hope that a couple of average guys could find a cure for the Blocks.