“Brother, I am going to buy a pie.” Bryan declared, without preamble. He turned on the truck’s blinker and changed directions toward the grocery store. We had not spoken at all in the ten or so minutes before this pronouncement. We were fresh off a ten hour work day on a roof. There wasn’t a square inch between us that wasn’t burnt or caked over with grit. All I wanted to do was get home and sleep.
“You’re better off drinking a lot of water when we get home, Bryan. Pie will make you feel sick.” I wasn’t feeling up to an outing in the grocery store. Bryan snorted at me and shouted “Fuck!” for no apparent reason. He does that sometimes.
“I’m not going to eat it! I just want to put my face in it and kind of breathe over it.” My brother nodded at his reflection in the rear view mirror and winked. I frequently let people know that I’m half mad. To put it delicately… my brother doesn’t have my problems with under-achievement in this particular category.
“What is that going to accomplish?” The logical part of me wanted to know, but the crazy half was already starting to sense the allure. What would it be like, of your own free will, to stick your face in a pie and inhale its essence?
“Think about it. I’m all sweaty and gross. My face is too hot. I’m all covered with shit, and my pores are clogged. Fuck! And then I’m going to get a nice cold coconut cream pie, and then I’m just going to stick my face in it. Can you even imagine how awesome that’s going to feel? Can you even fucking conceive of how glorious that’s going to be?” My brother turned his gaze away from the road to demonstrate with his hands that I could not conceive of the glory. He did this by reaching toward the top of the cab and making a fist as he pulled his hand down. “No. No you can’t. Because it’s going to be the greatest fucking feeling in the world.”
I considered all of this for a moment. My shirt was soaked through with sweat, my face was smeared with old attic dust, and I needed to sleep more than anything else in the world. “I’m in.” I said. All of the sudden, there was nothing I wanted more than to bury my face in a twelve-inch gingerbread crust filled with vanilla and raspberry swirl. It may have made no logical sense, but a voice within me whispered that doing this really would be the most glorious thing in the entire world.
Bryan entered the grocery store as he usually did, by doing a fly kick onto the sensor pad that controlled the door. Then he looked at the nearest stranger to walk out, made a face, and pointed to me. “That’s not a stranger,” my brother informed the man we had never met, “that’s my brother.” Then observing public protocol he shouted “Crap!” for no apparent reason other than that it was more polite than shouting “Fuck!” The stranger walked on, hurrying, and casting a worried glance over his shoulder.
The girls who run my brother’s favorite sandwich stand called out to him in excited greeting. “Sluts!” my brother quipped. For some reason, they found this funny. Bryan danced through the crowd of people blocking his path to the bakery with perhaps a few too many full spins, but with just enough style. I lagged behind him, stumbling.
Bryan opened up the freezer that contained the ice cream pie like he was trying to slam it open forever. Then he bent over at a right angle, stuck his entire torso inside of it, and told me “Brother, it is everything I have ever dreamed it could be. Everything… and more.” Then he laughed the cackle of a super villain and pulled out a coconut cream pie. I found my raspberry vanilla swirl in short order.
“Are you boys hungry?” The check-out girl tried to ask in a polite manner.
“Only for the souls of the tortured damned.” My brother whispered, panting like a dog in heat. He stopped panting suddenly and stared at a nearby wall. I tried to give a disarming smile to the cashier as I slid my debit card through the reader. From the terrified way in which I was handed my receipt, I do not think I succeeded in disarming her.
On the first open stretch of road, Bryan promptly began to accelerate the truck to a mere double the speed limit. “Bryan you should slow down. What if Spencer was out here playing or something?”
“I’d get over it,” Bryan muttered, as he pulled into the driveway. He ran out of the truck with his pie in his hands, making high pitched sounds of excitement. I plodded up the stairs with mine… and suddenly I was hungry for a pie. I wanted to eat it. I wanted to cut it into equal logical parts, and consume them one at a time.
Bryan, bolted up the stairs to his room, bellowing “For Gondor!” which is a secret phrase we have to which I replied “For Glory!” My brother, upstairs, slammed the door to his room shut and I imagine, promptly buried his face in his pie and breathed over its essence.
I pulled out a fork, took the plastic cover off my vanilla raspberry swirl, and sighed. “I’m a pussy.” I said, as I took a forkful of pie and put it into my mouth.
