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Porky's rental car is a piece of shit, and if anyone who's anyone sees him driving it, he'll kill himself in front of them. Don't test him. He carries a stiletto knife in his back pocket. While he's never had to use it as anything more than a mildly imposing letter opener, he's not afraid to be its first victim. He was promised an Audi, see. But Enterprise overbooked. Earning him a partial refund, and them a one star Google review, and the streets of Seattle an absolute booger on the loose. Hold your applause. He's dead serious. Laugh, and you'll lose a finger.
It's a Chevy Spark. Snot green. Looks like a child's rollerskate that got lost in a bog, or a clown car from a Mucinex commercial. Had only he could've, he would've parked somewhere up the block and walked, to spare himself the shame. He even circled around a few times, drowning out his own groans by blasting Iron Maiden through the crackly speakers. Alas. All the other spots and lots were taken by drivers of vehicles far less repulsive. Honestly unbelievable. What a bunch of entitled brats, going out for lunch and sightseeing on such a beautiful springtime afternoon. Porky slouches in his seat by the sprawling cafe window, and glares outside at his choleric chariot. It sits, unassuming, across the street. A ray of sunshine riccochets off the left rear view mirror, flying directly into his eyeballs. He sneers. Swirls his Americano in one hand, before helping himself to a noisy slurp.
He arranged the meetup, but not the venue. Wouldn't have been his first choice, or even his tenth. It's too bright in here. Too open. The window spans most of the wall. Brings him no joy, knowing that every liberal phony in this cutesy coffeeshop must've watched him crawl outta the loogie on wheels. But his concerns lie, as you know, with anyone who's anyone. The pair of thick-rimmed glasses in the corner is nobody to him. Same regards to the violet dyed hair behind the counter. Porky Minch is waiting for somebody. He got here early, in fact. A rare generosity, on his part. He wipes the espresso from his mustache - for the third or fourth time in the past ten seconds. Taps his shoe against the tile floor. Runs an idle finger up and down his text messages, at a speed which would almost seem antsy, if you somehow weren't aware that Porky never gets nervous.
... She'd better not chicken out on me, he thinks to himself.
He should've been watching the door. Instead of his stupid car. 'Cause unbeknownst to him? She's already arrived. Five 'til one, she's early too. It's her turn in line. She asks Pronoun Hair for a vanilla chai, and inquires about what sorta succulent that is on the counter, and if Porky were a real pig, his ears would twitch. 'Cause he hasn't heard her voice before. When it crackles at the edge, ever so slightly, it carries an uncannily familiar itch. But otherwise, it's too airy. Too smooth and easy. Whatever he thought he just heard, he writes it off as incidental.
( Agnes' eyes find him, while she's waiting by the bar. Phone in hands, about to announce herself on his screen, when his presence in the flesh halts her hesitant nails. Unmistakeable. With his curtain of bangs, and his penchant for striped suits. Propped up by an elbow on the table, gold watch clinging tight to his wrist, poking out just above an unbuttoned sleeve cuff. Shrouded in his own misanthropic aura, a little ghost town of unoccupied seats forming a ten foot arc around him. The man by the window couldn't possibly be anyone else. )
( Jeez, she thinks to herself. He hasn't changed a bit. That is, until he turns his head a sliver to the left. Revealing a glimpse of Dad's mustache plastered across his face. Her tummy twists at the sight of it. Her better nature settles, like an angel, upon her shoulder. Reaches down, to try and untangle her guts. )
( You don't judge a book by its cover, it preaches. )
( "Vanilla chai," the barista calls. )
Porky's back to his vigil, by the time she approaches him. Glowering at the pretty trees, and the unassuming passers by. Perhaps scouring the streets for somebody else. The woman's figure in his peripheral vision registers as an intrusion. A unwelcome distraction from his task. He won't even bother gracing her with a glance. He's still tapping his shoe when he grumbles,
"Do I look like I work here? If you need somethin', ask the chumps at the counter."
And - can you believe it! - he hears her scoff at him. Fucking scoff at him. No. No. Actually. It's something between a sigh and a snort. As if she can't decide whether she's disappointed or amused. Like whenever his jokes fell flat, or his pranks fell short, or he fell off the police barricade, that time he was tryin' to climb it to prove a point, and Picky scoffed or sighed or snorted, then settled on amusement, before cracking up and laughing in his face.
He knows that particular noise. Is the long and short of it.
"Hi, Patrick."
And look, alright. Shut up. Listen. Mom told him, a couple years ago. And Agnes told him, too. When he texted her last week, outta the blue, dredging up phrases like "please" and "if it's not too much to ask" from the dusty depths of his vocabulary. But neither he nor Mom have seen her since she graduated high school, okay? And that may as well have been a lifetime ago. So it's not as if he knew what to expect. Her dress is somewhat out of season - an autumnish shade of orange, with tiny white speckles and splotches, maybe flower petals, if Porky dares to inspect it. He finds her blazer almost garishly teal, upon his first gawking glimpse. It's certainly more color than he's ever seen on his sibling. After a couple blinks, though, even he must concede that she wears it well. He guesses she's wearing makeup, too? She must be. Though he wouldn't know the first thing about it. Her hair cascades just past her shoulders, rippling a bit along the way, and not a strand of it shrouds her eyes. Which is both a surprise and a relief. 'Cause they're just about the only thing he does recognize. Still as deep-set, sulky, and green as his. He finds strange solace, too, in the pale scars on her left hand. Carved across the back, and the last two knuckles. Where a dog bit her, when she was nine.
( Looks like Pat gave up on trying to outgrow Ness' beard. Ha. He's shaved sleek and pristine. Save for that wretched mustache. It was always funny - even she has to admit - how he's the older brother, but he's also the one with the big pudgy baby face. She wonders if the cold, stoic, grown-up grays of his suit are actually an endeavor to compensate. Err. No. Never mind. Maybe that's just mean. )
( Granted, he probably deserves it. )
"Ah... Nice to see you, too." Agnes answers his silence. Dryly.
"... Shit. Hi. You do look different."
"Yeah, man. That's the idea."
"Right. C'mere. Have a seat."
Porky can tell from her stiff shoulders that she doesn't exactly want to, and he's already blown it - nice going - and this whole ordeal is gonna be an uphill battle from here. But she hasn't felt comfortable around him since they were both angsty little tweenagers. So, really, what else is new. The fact she obliges at all is a goddamn miracle. As is the fact she showed up to begin with. He can't afford to squander any more good fortune. She descends across from him, framed by pothos vines hanging behind her, setting her drink politely on a wooden coaster. The Chevy Spark lurks infuriatingly in the corner of his vision. He wonders if she saw him park it. He tries to remind himself - come on, get it together - that that oughtta be the very least of his worries.
"So, uh... How long have y-- "
"-- Five years. If you've gotta know. Look, Pat, could we start with literally anything else?"
Her brother bites his tongue. Hard. Feels his coffee bubble in the back of his throat, like acid and fire and brimstone, something primal, a roar in his blood he can barely restrain. He wipes his mustache again. And murmurs, quietly, through his bile and his teeth and his napkin,
"I meant Seattle."
"... Oh." Agnes' shoulders plummet with her sigh. She gazes outside. Taps at the table with a glossed nail. "God. Sorry. Um... Ever since Tracy came for college, so... About eight years, then?"
"Y'mean you've stayed put all this time?" Porky clears his throat. Coughs twice into the same napkin. Washes down the sour taste in his mouth with another bitter chug. "Damn. You must really like it, up here in hipster land."
"Ha. Yeah. It's, uh. Nice." A lock of hair slips out from behind her ear, threatening to obscure her slowly unfurrowing brow. She fixes it promptly, yet gently. Tucks it right back where it belongs. "Expensive. But nice. I like the colder weather. And the water, and the mountains... Um... The people are friendly, if you get to know them. N' they stay outta your business, if you don't. I figure you could probably appreciate that, yeah?"
Now it's Porky's turn to snort. He flashes a brief grin. It's tooth-gritty. But nearly earnest. "Heh. For sure."
( Agnes neglects to mention the realest, plainest, mainest cause for comfort. Why this place has become more home to her than home ever was. She feels safer here. For reasons beyond what's obvious. The heart of America's a cage, landlocked on all sides. Freedom lies only at the distant edge of the Earth. No bruises or baggage to fetter her wings. She doesn't have to say so, though. Her brother figured that out to begin with. He's sharper than he lets on, y'know. )
( In a minute, she'll likewise gather that his reasons are much the same. )
"How 'bout you? Where've you been?"
"Oh, everywhere. Texas, Florida, Cali. Did business in London for a bit. Cairo, too. Pro tip: If you ever visit, skip the Pyramids. Not worth it."
"Wow. You weren't kidding."
"Yeah. Been in NYC for a couple years. But I'm over it. The bank I'm workin' for is a shitshow, anyways. You wouldn't believe the meeting they had me in this morning. They flew me all the way out here with this jackoff investor - goes by Fassad. Talk about a guy who lives up to his name, hah... Agghh." Agnes sips her chai, and blinks. Porky pauses, to pinch the headache that lingers between his eyebrows. "I dunno. I'm thinkin' of moving soon."
"Where to...?"
"Beats me. Anywhere but where I'm at."
"Sounds like you've traveled all over. Are there, uh. Any places you've liked, so far?"
"Tch. No."
She tries to smile. Like she thinks he's joking. "Really?"
"Really. Everywhere I've been is too crowded, first of all. N' people are assholes, no matter where ya go. There more of 'em there are, the worse it gets."
"Okay. Well. Have you considered moving somewhere less crowded, then?"
"Maybe so. Ha."
Of course he's considered it. And what do you take him for, huh? Some kinda moron? If you were paying attention, you'd know he's sharper than he lets on. Their bastard father had rocks for brains back in the day, and now that he's pushing sixty, he's probably grown duller than ever. Porky, on the other hand, inherited their mother's clever streak. He's pushing thirty, getting smarter all the while. It's taken him half as many years to start figuring out what Aloysius Minch never will. That there's a common denominator in their lonesome misfortune. It runs, and boils, in his aforementioned blood.
Travel all world's cities, and you'll meet all sorts of folks. Some are kind and painstaking and inspirational, like his secretary Electra, who used to toil in fast food drive throughs, but worked her way up the capitalist chain to serve him his stupid appointments and Americanos. Some are a lotta fun at a bar, like his un-buddy Junior, who used to be a CIA agent before he got laid off, then ended up working bank security, and was a sealed vault by day, but would spew all kinds of wild stories after a few drinks. Some are simply insufferable, like Fassad, with his insincere sneer and his cheesegrater-to-your-ears laugh and a knife behind his back, ready to gut you the moment you cross him. Makes no difference who they are. Given enough time, they've all come to despise this guy right here. Porky's problem isn't people. It starts with the handsome mug in the mirror, and ends in the shoes he's still tapping, right now, under the table. But he doesn't admit aloud that he knows it. In no world would he ever fucking dare. Instead, he says:
"I could go become some redneck pig farmer on a plot o' land in the middle of nowhere. Maybe that'd be the life. Heh. Can you imagine it? Me in a hay field, holdin' a pitchfork. All done up in a plaid flannel, n' a pair of overalls."
And despite herself, Agnes chuckles. With the same old snort they share. He used to be real good at teasing it out of her. Flipping kid Picky's frown upside-down was easy-peasy. Literal child's play. Somethin' in Porky's chest flickers. Heartburn, he guesses. He hasn't had much to eat today, besides this cup of motor oil.
"See, there ya go," she says. "Back to Kansas, then?"
"Ugh, never. That's the one place I haven't been. How 'bout you, eh? Taken any trips back to the ol' shithole?"
( Christmas was a blast. Agnes never considered herself a great gift-giver, but she'd found a really distinctive antique rabbit figurine at a thrift store, and it reminded her of Poo, and he absolutely loved it. Last July, she'd given Claus a ride home from their shift at the emergency vet, and together they'd screamed that one Linkin Park song 'til they were wheezing. Paula took her clothes shopping, the summer she came out, which feels like yesterday and forever ago in the same breath, but the gratitude remains just as warm. Tracy's mom still calls her sweetheart every time she visits, and hugs her so tight, and she swears, at least for a moment, she could almost forget all the reasons she left. To say as much, though, would be salt in Patrick's wounds. Coughing up the ashes of the bridges he's burned. So she doesn't bother. Instead, she says: )
"... With Tracy, yeah. Most summers n' holidays."
"Yeah? I'm surprised. The way Mom talks about you, I assumed you didn't go down there often." Porky pauses a moment. Presses one thoughtful finger into his chin. A toothy grin begins to flicker beneath his lips. "Then again, for all I know, maybe she's just lyin' to make you look bad. Hah. Wouldn't put it past her."
Wouldn't be the first time. Picky was Mom's favorite, which wasn't saying much, 'cause it never stopped her from painting the poor kid as selfish, dishonest, or downright conniving, whenever it suited her. All she had to do was slip up and forget a soccer game, or lose her allergy meds, and suddenly, it was all Picky's fault. Porky knew them both too well to fall for it. Sometimes he pitched in on Mom's side anyways. He remembers the look of betrayed bewilderment that'd flash across his sister's face - now that it creeps back into her eyebrows, and the wiggly corners of her mouth.
"I... don't think she knows, when I'm visiting. I don't go to see her. You can imagine why." And just like that, it's gone. No trace of childish hurt nor panic. Just another sip of chai. Clearly, she's put some work into her poker face. Porky's almost proud. "What does she say about me? Do I even wanna know?"
"Ohhh, just that you hate her guts. And that she's tried to call you a bazillion times, and you won't answer her Facebook messages. And that she's sooo sorry for everything, but you won't even give her the chance to say so, so clearly you must just want her to die. That sound about right?"
( She'd cried a river of crocodile tears, and called her "Peter" about a dozen times over, in the first voicemail. So Agnes blocked her number. "I don't know where I went wrong with you," the first message read. So Agnes stopped checking Facebook altogether. With 20/20 hindsight, maybe it's obvious - she should never have bothered telling her. But there's a lot of things that're obvious in hindsight. If she wastes her breath mourning them all, the sheer weight of remorse will bury her. Better to know for sure than go on wondering, she thinks. To know where the ground is solid, and where it isn't. )
"Yep," says Agnes. "Sounds like Mom."
"Hahah," Porky snorts.
"She's not lying, though. About me not talking to her, I mean. So props to her, I guess, for being sort of honest."
"A real saint, isn't she? She does say she misses you, y'know. Even I ring her up sometimes, just to give her some hell." He lets his pearly whites shine in the window's glow. "Turns out you're even crueler than yours truly."
Agnes doesn't smile back, though. A silent sigh leaves her lips, as she leans ever so slightly away in her seat.
"Maybe so," she replies.
She clutches her cup with both hands. Glossed nails tap at the brown paper sleeve. Porky watches her scars wriggle. When she got bit, the ER had to vax and test for rabies. He remembers her crying. She was scared she was gonna die. He was scared, too. Terrified, really. But he didn't tell her so. He clenched his jaw tight. Swallowed his spit. Then told her instead that animal control would catch the dog, and hack its head off, to confirm whether or not it was rabid. Didn't even know if it was true - just somethin' he'd heard on TV once. Maybe, in his own way, he was trying to reassure her. If the animal paid for it, it'd all be even in the end, right? Nothin' to cry about. But Picky didn't stop crying.
"Hey," he prods. "Why the long face? It was a compliment. She deserves it."
"Alright." Says Agnes. She sips her warm drink, yet her voice comes out cold. When she lowers her left hand, the scar disappears under her blazer sleeve.
In honest retrospect, Porky doesn't know what he was thinking. With the dog thing. He probably didn't back then, either. He was twelve. Cut him some slack, will ya.
"She n' Prettyman finally got hitched. Did she tell ya that, before you banished her to the Shadow Realm?"
"Yeah. She mentioned it."
"Mom's got that guy so whipped. They came to see me, last year. Well. Came to see The Big Apple, and dragged me into their second honeymoon. He's still fawnin' over her 24/7. Gotten worse, if you ask me. She brought three bigass purses, and - get this - he had his arms full with all of 'em, all day, haulin' 'em all over the city for her. May as well carry around a red carpet, too, so he can roll it out everywhere she walks."
Much to Porky's relief, Agnes manages a small - but nonetheless crookedly snide - smirk. "Aww, don't be too hard on Shittyman. He's just tryin' to keep his princess humble."
It wasn't often she got him cackling with her wisecracks, instead of her misfortune. Way back when, these were rare victories. She used to relish them. Porky supposes she still does. 'Cause her smile lingers, even when he's done rollicking.
"Hah! Hell, but y'know, you may be onto somethin'. I bet she'd be a real menace, without loverboy there to tide her over."
( And Agnes recalls when Dad left. How hollow home felt in his absence. It should've felt safer, she remembers thinking. Should've felt fine and dandy. But Mom whipped and lashed about the place like a tornado, so really, she and her brother hardly slept. If Mom wasn't busy leaving Dad another voicemail, she was shouting at them to come downstairs, and tend to the trash and dishes in his stead, even though there was hardly any trash in the bin, and only a couple of plates in the sink. And if she wasn't doing that, she was reorganizing the kitchen drawers for the thirtieth time. And if she wasn't doing that, she was reeling back a hand to smack Porky for backtalking, because someone had to lay down the law in this house. And he was sneering right back at her, his own hands tucked nice and harmless behind his back, as he hissed, "Go ahead, then. Go on." And later she'd clamber upstairs in tears, smother him in hugs, pepper his bruise with kisses. Apologize 'til their ears rang. While her poor baby boy barked, "Stop, piss off, leave me alone!" And Picky listened through the paper-thin wall, clenching her jaw tight, raking restless nails over her bedsheets. )
( Prettyman's a sycophantic putz - even she will heartily agree. A reward Lardna hardly earned. Seldom did he glance astray from her eyes, or up from his magazines. He treated Patrick like he was eleven, and Agnes like she was six or seven, right on through high school. Placate 'em with a collectible toy car made of dirt-cheap plastic, or a misplaced pat on the head. Never offered an ounce of guidance or clarity to either of them. )
( But hell. Patrick's right. She'd rather Prettyman be there than not. )
"... How 'bout Dad?" she asks. Bravely.
"Eh?" her brother grunts. As if he doesn't understand the question.
"You, uh... Have you heard from him at all? Any news about him?"
Porky suddenly finds assurance in his own wretched vibes, warding off any would-be eavesdroppers from the empty seats around them. He casts a cautionary glare toward their nearest neighbor, some bearded schmuck hunched over a laptop in the corner. But the guy seems too preoccupied with his screenplay, or whatever, to notice the wild boar staring him down.
"Aw, yeah. I met up with the guy."
"Really? Where at?"
Vegas. Per Dad's invitation. Hadn't heard a word from the bastard since he cut Porky off during college - yeah, yeah, for trashing an Airbnb on his credit card, it was a whole thing. Color the fallen son curious, when his old man called him up yapping about a weekend on the Strip.
"Doesn't matter," says Porky. He promised himself - cross his heart, stiletto in hand - that he'd tell no lies today. Agnes had better not push her luck.
"Okay...? When, then? If, uh. If you dont mind me asking?"
Three years ago. Porky was in his prime. Prowling the globe with a swagger in his shined shoe step. Just scrapped the old Benz his daddy gave him. Replaced it with a slick Bentley. His salary hadn't quite yet broken outta the six figure range (and in fact, had only quite recently broken into it) - but he felt like a million bucks, and that's what counted most. He'd become untouchable. Invincible.
"Doesn't matter."
It really doesn't. Aloysius Minch looked, walked, and talked the same as he ever did. Which is to say: like a cigar-puffing republican alligator, on all counts. The man was a wrecking ball when he hit the slot machines. Porky'd never seen him laugh or smile so much. They hooted and hollered and high-fived over their wins, and drank their losses, passing schemes n' shotglasses back and forth. They dined like the king and prince of the whole goddamn world, in the hours between. As the weekend's end drew near, Porky's shifty eyes and ears grew weary of scouring for the catch. Besides. Lady Luck was rockin' out with them. Together they'd amassed a sparkling little fortune. If Porky had to guess, probably about the GDP of a small country (in 1650) (not adjusted for inflation). But Sunday night had other plans. Dad licked his lips, and reached out his claws, pining for the lion's share. As if to mock his avarice, the blackjack table snapped its jaws right over his head.
And his head hang low over the bar, after the fact. Porky told him he'd already had enough to drink. Porky, however, doesn't tell Aloysius anything. A fact Aloysius was keen to remind him. Firmly.
Needless to say, Dad was in no shape to drive thirty minutes south to his Marriott. They retired instead to Caesars Palace. The suite under Patrick's name. He remembers ol' Emperor Nero glaring daggers at the Statue of David. Then taking a sharp and sudden change in tone, once they got to the room. Aloysius, as it turns out, was at the end of his rope. And might still be - as far as Porky knows. The guy lost his job. His house, too. Fell back on his investments, only for those to crash and burn. "Karma's a bitch," his ex-mother-in-law used to say. Porky's got her nose. He turned it up at his father, donning a sneer that'd suit a supervillain, when the jackass had the absolute nerve to ask for his help.
"Well. Isn't this just pitiful? Are those tears I see in your eyes, Al? Maybe - just maybe - if you get on your knees and beg? Apologize for every little thing, like you really fucking mean it? Then, I might consider throwing my deadbeat dad some scraps."
Never before had such power flowed through his veins. Prickled at the tips of his twitching fingers. Simmered like fire breath on his tongue, as it hissed through his smirking, gnashing teeth. His suite kissed the sky, perched high and mighty on the fourteenth story. Porky was in his prime. His zenith.
"Sit down, Patrick."
It lasted - of course - for all of ten seconds.
"I said, sit down."
Aloysius broke the lamp first. Ripped it out of its electrical socket, and smashed it against Patrick's bracing forearm. Next came the drawers from the wardrobe. Tore those out, too, lobbing them one after the other. TV screen shattered. Gouged dents in the wall. You think you were funny, Pat, when you cursed your old man with three grand in property damages? Well, Al's about to be hilarious. Patrick got his hands blistered and busted, trying in vain to hold him back. Found himself cowering at the end of a curtain pole, blood smeared across his ringing ear, after a swift bash to the skull. He sputtered on the floor. Took it all back, over and over again. Trembled so hard, he thought he'd burst apart, atom by atom, until there remained no trace of his worthless existence.
"You're less than nothing without me. I should end you. Pop you, like the insolent little pustule you are. If you won't honor the father who brought you into this world, I should have every right to take you out of it."
Go ahead, then, he'd told Mom. Go on. But the words were a gag in his throat. He could feel himself choking on them. He couldn't stop crying. The world was a blur, and he was a mere insect, limbs splayed on the carpet, and if a weapon or heel came down to crush him, in this instant, he'd know he deserved it.
What an unspeakable cruelty it was, then, that Aloysius left him there.
He came to in the morning with a splitting headache. A broad, splintery crack in the balcony window. And his casino cash payouts nowhere to be found.
"I'm guessing it went pretty badly...?" Agnes asks.
Her new voice droops to a painstakingly gentle murmur. It almost makes him sick to his stomach. Thinkin' of how she'd cast pensive whispers over to his side of the room, back when they shared a bedroom. While Dad's roars and footsteps thundered downstairs.
"Ha. You could say that," answers Porky. He finishes his drink by craning it high overhead, reeling his neck, and slurping the last few drops. "Ahh. But like I said - it doesn't matter. Me n' him are through. You haven't heard from him, have ya?"
"No... He hasn't reached out, so... And, uh. I haven't either."
"Don't." Porky locks eyes with her. Feels his queasy tummy twist and wring inside him. But he does not let his gaze falter. "Agnes, don't you fucking dare, okay?"
( Pat's always spoken in a gritty, grainy, guttural growl. He probably can't help it, at this point. Harsh grooves beaten deep into his vocal cords. Even when he was small, he took his cues from cartoon dinosaurs, bigger bullies, and Dad's cigar-charred lungs. They'd be playin' outside, with Ness n' the boys, and kid Porky'd be sure to bring his very best jackhammer impression. Agnes remembers excusing herself. Running toward the house. Just to grab a quick glass of water. How frantically she flinched, when Porky snarled in her ear. Gripped her arm dog-bite-tight. Yanked her back so fiercely, the whiplash had her on the ground. Don't go in there. He'd seen the bottle atop the coffee table, before they went out. Heard the stomping stirrings of a fight. Take one step in there, and you're in for it, stupid. Unbeknownst to her, too young and dumb to know any better, he'd likely spared her a grisly fate. Though the purple bruise on her arm, and the yellow one on her back, were brutal in their own right. )
( Growl notwithstanding - her name's first utterance isn't. )
"... Okay." She says. Softly. Her mouth hangs ever so slightly agape. Porky scrutinizes the teeny-tiny gap between her front teeth. Scours her hands, for any crossed fingers. Finding none, he settles back behind his bangs. Props up, again, with a brazen elbow on the table.
( Secretly? Agnes needed to hear it from him. Though her stint with Mom may be her most adamant yet, she knows, in her heart of hearts, that it won't last forever. She learns her lessons, but they don't like to stick. Picky was the one who called Al, when Lardna wouldn't. Who wrote him letters, when he wouldn't pick up. A decade and then some's embargo weighs a pound a day on her sternum. Given her brother's warning, she will not dare to break it. But it'll keep weighing, and hurting, anyways. If that makes her stupid, sentimental, or spineless - so be it. She wants what she was always owed. And not even knowing better stops the wanting. Hell. Eight years was almost too much to bear. She doesn't regret it. It healed her more than it tortured her, if only barely. That's just the sort of person she is. Not at all like her family. Or, maybe more like them than she'd care to admit. )
( There's a reason she showed up today. Is the long and short of it. )
"... Damn, though. This is getting depressing. Let's stop talkin' about those old geezers, eh?" Porky looks outside, and sniffles audibly through his nostrils. Springtime allergies. Gotta love 'em. "What've ya been doin' for work, anyways? I forgot to ask."
"Oh. Um." Agnes flitters back to life, as if shaking off some sorta trance. Taps her nails on the table. Gulps another dose of chai. "I've been working as a florist courier, for a couple years..."
"The hell's that?"
"I, uh. Deliver flowers, basically. You've gotta promise me you won't call it gay, alright?"
"It's not gay if you're a girl."
( Well. That's progress. Sort of. She guesses. )
"How's it pay?"
"Could be better... Could be a lot worse, though, too. I spent a long time cashiering at a gas station before - don't laugh."
"Ha." Porky says.
"Yeah, sure. It was pretty much awful. Then I tried FedEx. Y'know, 'cause Tracy had an alright time there, back in high school. Seattle's a lot bigger than Onett, though. And the customers are crazier, in a big city. It was just way too hectic. Not worth the pay. But she did DoorDash in college - Tracy I mean - and I thought, hey, that sounds a lot easier. So I ended up trying that, too, for a while..."
"Heheh," he snickers. For real, this time. "If Tracy jumped off a bridge, I bet you'd jump right in behind her."
Picky would insist otherwise. Beg him to take it back. Maybe snivel and pout about it. Agnes just smiles. With her wiggly lips, and her eyes, and everything. Like a goddamn ray of sunshine. She exhales a small chuckle, when she replies.
"Yep. Probably so."
"I can't believe you two are still at it together. You're really not beatin' the girlfriend allegations, y'know that?"
Another surefire way to get Picky's goat. Put her in tears. Afraid to even meet her best friend's gaze, lest someone misconstrue the two of 'em. One time though, still red-faced and snotty, Picky turned the tables. Pointed a finger right in Porky's smirking face, and reminded him why he ought not throw stones from glass houses. In turn, his fist reminded her why she ought to keep her big dumb mouth shut. His sentiments for Ness were a tight tangle in his heartstrings. Bunch of raw nerves, more irreparably jumbled than the N64 cords stashed at the back of his closet. (Which he'd stolen from Ness. Of course.) He crushed them up in both hands. Squeezed 'til the wiring frayed and shocked him. While his little sister ran off, across the Rockies, with the girl next door.
( The word fiancée flutters on Agnes' tongue. But her teeth and guts deem it too risky. She briefly considers telling him it's just for tax purposes. Ha. Like that'd soften the blow. As if Patrick wouldn't see right through her awkward dishonesty - and resent it - like he always did, whenever she'd meekly mumble white lies n' cover stories. Besides. It'd hardly be fair to Tracy, anyways. I can tell him some other time, she thinks. If he behaves himself. )
"What can I say? We get along real well."
Porky hunts for any sign of her old frantic fluster, yet only finds her cheeks a little rosy. That dopey smile still stuck on her face. He clenches his jaw, and swallows a lump of spit. And shit, damn it, he's not going to envy her. He's over it. He's so fucking weary of it. You're twenty-nine years old, for chrissake, a voice hisses. Gator gurgles in the back of his head. Grow up. Get a grip.
"That's good," he says. Through the panging ache in his mandible, as he pries his teeth apart. "I'm happy for you."
When Agnes was small, Porky's words were solid gold. Had her lookin' for "gullible" on the ceiling. Fallin' face-first for every trick in the book. By the time she hit fourteen or so, though, she was pretty much an ace detective. Scowling at him from across the living room, when he told Mom he'd caught Prettyman cheating on her with a made-up mistress half her age. Glaring daggers, when his Benz definitely wasn't responsible for the fresh new scrape on Agnes' Honda, and that's not booze on his breath, "chill out, Picky, get off my ass...!" Nothing slipped past her. Of course, she might not do anything about it. No point. Powerless to stop him. But she'd make sure he had to stomach her all-seeing leer. Some folks catch some of his fibs. Others are total marks. Agnes, though? She's the only person whose bullshit detector never, ever missed.
He vowed he'd tell no lies today. She doesn't have to believe him. He wouldn't, either.
To make matters worse, now he's got that poker face to contend with. 'Cause she simply replies, "Aw. Thanks." And keeps grinning. And he can't, for the life of him, tell whether she thinks more or less of him.
"Uh-huh." A car honks outside. He clenches a fist under the table. To keep himself from flinching. "Anyways. Tell me about DoorDash."
"Wait. Gosh, sorry. Do you actually care?"
"Not really. But I am kinda curious." And give him a break, will ya. He's not just trying to rub the obvious wealth disparity in her face. Far be it from him to hold his college degree over her. Considering the man who paid for most of it, and all the prickly memories, he prefers not to mention how he got where he is. Or think about it. If he can help it. "My drivers always have rocks for brains. Gettin' lost, deliverin' to the wrong address... And, well. Heh. You always had a bad sense of direction, yourself." He thinks of all the times he found her, lost and whimpering, after wandering off in department stores. Then, how she'd often come home real late at night. Claiming she got lost drivin' back from god knows where. "I'm wonderin' how you managed it. Or - haha. Maybe it suited ya just right."
"Turns out, a sense of direction is something you can teach yourself," she simply replies. Two-handing her drink, and finishing it off with a tiny slurp. At least, Porky presumes she's done with it. 'Cause when it reunites with the coaster, it emits a hollow thunk.
His tummy still hurts. He really should've eaten something.
"Makes sense, I guess. And you'd get to spend a lotta time alone, instead of dealing with a bunch o' jackoffs. Doesn't sound glamorous, but I'm sure it beats a lot of other jobs out there."
"Yeah. If you don't mind a company completely taking advantage of you. Which, heh... I guess I didn't, for a while. I just like driving. But, uh. I like people, too. Took me 'til I got this florist job, to figure that out."
"That so?"
"Mhmm. It's like, um. My boss is super sweet, she makes all these custom bouquets... And I deliver 'em, for weddings, anniversaries, birthdays. And. Well. Stuff like funerals, too. N' folks who're sick in the hospital. So it's sometimes really wonderful. And sometimes really miserable. People always share such good stories, though... Like this little old lady whose husband used to be a firefighter, and they met like forty years ago, when he saved her cat. Or these two kids - one of 'em was this really goth teenager, the other was like eight - and they wanted to surprise their mom with flowers arranged like skulls n' crossbones. 'Cause she'd recovered from cancer the year before. They called it her Beatin' the Reaper Anniversary. I thought it might be kinda offensive, or whatever, but, ha... Aw, man. She loved it. She had a great sense of humor. The mom, I mean."
( He probably doesn't remember Agnes being half this chatty. On account that she never was when he knew her. She can barely help it, these days. It comes pouring out of her, like sun through a window. As the clock ticks toward two, the shine starts carving a steady diagonal beam across her face. Half dim, half shimmery. )
"I dunno," she says. "It's nice, is all. Getting to show up for families going through stuff, whether it's good or bad. Being able to give 'em something. Even if it's something small."
The Agnes Porky remembers wasn't half this chatty. On account that blabbermouthing got you all but killed, where they came from. Better mind your fuckin' Miranda rights. Anything you say can and will be used against you. Their last conversation was eight years prior. He doesn't remember it very well. Too much alcohol and adrenaline in his system. He does recall wishing for a belly full of rat poison before and afterwards. But that doesn't for a second excuse the bile he'd spat at her. The malice with which he punished her pity. She'd always tried so cluelessly, desperately, stupidly hard to duct tape the Minches back together. What an impressive feat it was, then, when he snapped her last straw. Mom told him as much, years later, blaming him over the phone. He told Mom to take her guilt trips and shove 'em up her ass.
"That does sound nice." He replies. Though his throat feels tight. Choky, even. So it comes out awfully dry. Almost a wheezy sputter.
Their last few meetings he can recollect clearly weren't any better. Worse, in fact. Rendered gruesome in sharper hindsight. How small she seemed, shrinking and quivering into his couch, as he loomed and roared and howled over her like a beast upon its prey. How disappointed in him she was - he could hear it, in her old sad sick brittle little voice - when he begged her to get him back in touch with Mom's bank account, and bluffed threats of fabricated blackmail if she didn't. How many times he called her worthless, or useless, or hopeless. Latched onto her leg, with his alligator jaws, and dragged her back down through the mud. Though all she'd ever done to deserve it was show up when he called for her.
"Ah... How about you, though?" Agnes looks at him with eyes that seem to plead. Fuck. Damn it. Is she worried he's upset with her? Or pitying him? She can't do that. She knows better, she knows better. "You said your bank job sucks, yeah? Are you thinking you're, uh. Gonna quit, and find another bank? Or go do something else?"
There's a reason she showed up today. Porky knows what it is, deep in his aching guts. He's taking advantage of it, right here and now. He can't look her in the eyes. Ha. And he used to call her a coward.
"I dunno. Depends where I move, I guess. Or. Maybe where I move depends on what I find. It's up in the air, right now."
He feigns a nonchalant shrug. His shoulders are too stiff to sell it. Assuming his sister's still as perceptive as she was in the ninth grade, she can probably tell that he is, in fact, quite chalant. If he fixes his gaze on the Chevy Spark, he doesn't have to meet hers. Focusing hard, as if attempting some kinda ocular laser blast, or psychic projection attack, he tries to funnel all his wayward spite toward its hideous green frame. His mouth, meanwhile, moves on its own.
"I hate where I'm at. But none of the other shit I've done was worth my time, either. Banking, investing, accounting, sales... It's all just stupid numbers going up n' down. And there's always someone around to make my day shittier. The biggest problem, I think, is that people don't like me. And I don't like people. Heh. Even on the goddamn farm, I'd have to sell my pork n' eggs to some poor schmuck. So everything's basically a crapshoot." No. God. That's enough. Porky rips himself away from the dumb car again, this time with a brisk shake of his head. "But whatever. None of that's important."
"Hey, come on. Sure it is, Pat. Look, I, um...? I don't wanna overstep. But if you're havin' that rough a time, I think you should really consider talking to s -- "
" -- Don't." Porky cuts her off swiftly and surely. Reaches out with one hand, as if to grab her arm. Then thinks better of it, the instant he sees her earnest concern give way to a flinch.
There, a crocodillian maw sneers. That's more like it.
He chomps back with bared tusks. Tightly gritted teeth, concealed by his twitching lips. And tells it to fuck off already.
"I mean it. Knock that off," he warns Agnes. Though his throat's feeling tight again. Less a growl, more a hoarse croak. "Forget it, I shouldn't've said any of that. I'm not... aghh.. asking you, to feel sorry for me."
"And I'm not feeling sorry for you!"
She used to cry harder over him than she did for herself, whenever he got hit and she didn't. Even though it scarred her worse. Sometimes, she couldn't even bare to look at him. Which was better for both of them, anyways.
He didn't expect her to snap. She wasn't supposed to. But he shouldn't be surprised. Patrick was always the shortsighted one. Reckless like a firecracker. Or a goddamn car crash. Agnes' seat makes this awful grating noise, when she stands up. Beneath its agony, and under her breath, he thinks he hears her hiss, "shit, shit." If anyone's staring, his tunnel vision disintegrates their bodies and brains and prying eyes.
"You call me up to tell me you're miserable. You tell me you're miserable, but you don't want my help. I just thought maybe I could look out for my brother, is all. I don't understand why you have to make that so difficult. But whatever. That's fine. Let's just..." A cloak of hair slips into her face, when she shakes her head at him. "How 'bout you forget it, alright?"
"Agnes, wait-!"
Porky tries to stand too. His legs are jelly underneath him. Pins and needles, and all that. He braces himself, half-upright, between the chair and table, sunlight forming an eye-stinging outline around him. Strewn across the floor, his dark shadow chases after her.
"Please, please don't go, listen, I... I came to apologize."
( And her jaw slacks. Mouth drooping into a plain and curious letter O. Like Pat used to do when he was playing dumb, funnily enough. It was never his fault. Nothing ever could've been. So many things were hers, instead. A misremembered chore. A shattered glass or window. A message she passed from him to Mom, back when she was playing Hermes, but Mom wouldn't heed any son nor gods nor daughter, so the blame collapsed inevitably over her head. Agnes was ten when she ran off looking for a shooting fucking star - can you blame her?! - and Patrick got in trouble for sneaking out to find her, and for heckling a cop along the way, and for getting Ness involved - and it was all her fault, and didn't she know she was getting too old for this shit - but he could've left well enough alone, couldn't he? And he called out for her, in the breezy pitch dark, under the swaying trees. And she called back, )
"... What?"
"That's... why I wanted to see you. That's why I'm here. Hah.. So couldja just...?"
Sit the hell down and listen to me? The roar rattles his skull from the inside. Pounds against his ear drums, his sinuses. But gaspy wheezes punch holes in every other word. Carve his speech into little pieces, such that he cannot spit out the whole beast. Its claws scrape the esophageal walls. Maybe, if he swallows hard enough, the restless bile in his stomach will put it out of its misery at last.
".. Hear me out? Please?"
And she does, he thinks, look at him like an animal that needs to be put down. They've got the same eyes, but somehow hers are so much better at mourning. When their folks die, Porky isn't sure he'll be able to stand next to Agnes, at either funeral. Or even at Prettyman's. She's wearing heeled shoes - though they're broad and slight, not thin and high. They clack heavily over the tile floor, as she passes back through his shadow. Reclaims her seat, slowly. And sighs.
"Go ahead, then." She says. Clutching her empty cup with both hands. "I'm listening."
Sinking back into his chair, Porky lets out a sigh of his own. If only to catch his breath. His heart won't stop panging, but that's fine. So long as he can stop wheezing like a geriatric marathon runner. Get it together, already. Agnes obviously had zero tolerance for bullshit in mind, from the moment she walked in that door. He's already past strike three. He doesn't suppose she'll humor another.
( She can see him staring at her scar again. From every periphery, she can see strangers eyeing the two of them, too. Her younger self would be mortified. Truthfully, and honestly? Her present self's just tired. She runs a couple fingertips gently over the side of the cup. As if to reassure some poor, scared kid. )
"So, um. I've..."
He stops to cough. Into his sleeve, mind you. Make all the pig jokes you want, but he was raised in an FDA-regulated slaughterhouse, not a barn, thank you very much.
No. Okay. Breathe.
"... I've been really.. really horrible to you. Since... Since forever, right. I mean. I know we left off in a pretty bad spot." Understatement of the millennium. Porky holds back a wince, when he watches Agnes' eyebrows perk. "But it was terrible long before that. Er. I was terrible. Long before that."
He can't tell if he's doing this right. Is it supposed to hurt? To burn like this? Frantic heat, broiling and frying under his skin? She hasn't gotten up and left yet. He still has her undivided attention. So. Surely he can't be fucking it up completely.
"And.. And I know you know why, I was like that. Why I still am. But. That doesn't make it okay. Hah... That makes it way worse, actually. 'Cause you went through all the same shit. You didn't need to get it from your jackass brother, too."
She doesn't say anything. Or make like she wants to. Doesn't make any sort of expression he can read, either. For a moment, he thinks the pothos vines behind her are moving on their own. Contorting into a tangled mess of cords, and veins, and elaborate webs. He wants to cover his face, and hold his eyes shut. He knows he can't do that, right now.
"I shouldda been keeping you safe from all that. I tried to, at first. But I shouldn't've stopped. I shouldda tried harder. Instead of hitting you, and pushing you around, and saying all that awful shit to you all the time. Like - agh. Callin' you worthless. You're not fuckin' worthless. You were literally the only one trying. Our family's a fucking wreck without you, Agnes - and we deserve it."
Ah. Shit, shit. He's not seriously shaking. He can't be trembling, right in front of her. He gulps another wad of spit. Tugs on his tie, just to hold onto something. If he backs out now, it's truly over for him.
"So. I'm sorry. For everything. And, ah... And you don't have to forgive me. Ever. If you don't want to. I wouldn't, if I were you. But that's none of my business. I just.. want you to know I'm sorry."
Her gaze is still pinning him, like a big beetle to a display board. Inspecting. Dissecting. Picking him apart, the way he used to torment the bugs he found under rocks and logs. It's off his chest. Out in the air. Yet the burning doesn't stop.
She opens her mouth to make her decree. "Is th-?" Panicked, he stutter-blurts something else. "And y-?" Their muted voices crash into each other. A quiet kerfuffle splatters across the table. Some sort of physics equation. Mashing momentum against inertia. Back in science class, they learned that the human hand has twenty-seven little bitty bones in it. Unseen under the surface, Porky squeezes his own palm as if he's trying to break every last one of them.
"Sorry. You go ahead."
"No, that's fine. Keep talking."
Okay. He didn't break anything. It just hurts, is all. Throbs at him, while he dares to mumble the rest.
"... And. You're right. That I'm.. ha. Miserable."
But she isn't. She was supposed to be. Got the same curse haunting her, and none of the wealth to compensate. Every factor, and all his brazen assumptions, Jenga-stacked tall against her. Yet she stands untoppled. He can see her so blindingly clearly, in all this shine. With a bouquet of milkweed and chamomile in her arms. Her childhood best friend at her side. This stupid, far-off, beautiful goddamn city swirling around them. She's so fucking happy. Of all the irredeemable things he's done or could do, the very worst, Porky thinks - would be to ruin that for her.
"If I'm being totally honest? There's nobody left who'll put up with me. And, hah. I can't blame them. That's my problem, not yours. I just thought... agh. That you're the only person who'd even consider giving me the time of day. But. I don't wanna hurt you anymore. I promise, Agnes, I really don't. So..."
His younger self would be mortified. His present self is, too. Sweating out his ego all over his undershirt. Even more than that, though, he's tired. Exhausted, even. An alligator's terrible tail tries to thrash, sinking deeper into a lake of stomach acid. Its struggles grow feebler by the minute. He wonders if Agnes can see it inside him, with those pick-you-apart eyes of hers.
"So I wanted to ask. And, ah. You can say no - you can tell me to fuck off and I'll leave you alone forever - that's fine, I get it. What I mean is, I wanna really ask you... if we could maybe, like...? Start over? You n' me? And, uh. Talk sometimes? Especially whenever Mom n' Dad are bein' shitty again. But even when they're not. I don't know. I just hate all this bad blood. I thought maybe, it'd be good for you too, if we could put it all behind us."
Porky stares down at his cup, laid precarious and sideways on the table, itching to crush it in his hands. He sniffles, slightly. When the itch grows unbearable, he looks up instead. Finally meets his sister's gaze. And offers her the pristinest silence he can muster.
"... No, Patrick."
Agnes says. This time, he does not rise to interrupt her. No matter how bad it burns. Or how fiercely his heart pounds.
"We can't start over. Of course not. I mean? If it was only the stuff you did when we were dumb little kids, sure, I guess, but...?" She pauses to breathe in, deep, through her nose. They share the same nose, too. Did he mention that. Upturned and haughty-looking, like Grandma Sue's. The old hag's classic mantra - "Karma's a bitch" - echoes down the empty halls in Porky's head. "You knew better, when you were older. I needed your help more than ever. You were all grown up, and I was still a kid, and you were treating me even worse. Treating me like garbage. And I've still gotta live with that. You say you get it, right? So you'd know it doesn't go away, just 'cause you want it to."
"... Yeah," he answers. Though it's the quietest thing he's said all day. A meager rasp. Cigarette-addled lungs deflating, like a punctured balloon. "I get it." 'Cause she's right. Isn't she. He'd never cut Dad that kind of slack. Not a drop of water left under the bridge. Not in a million, billion years.
"There's no such thing as, like... a clean slate. Y'know?"
"Right."
"... But," says Agnes. She dips one hand over her shoulder, into her sunstruck hair. Kneads at it, with her restless fingertips. "Ah.. We could try again, anyways. If you want."
The burning snuffs out suddenly. An ashtray smear that leaves Porky stunned and smouldering. And still winded, besides. He coughs again. Then sputters,
"Huh?"
And she laughs. Laughs at him! A little giggle, "Hehe," with one hand over her mouth to stifle a snort. The sorta mockery that used to leave him bright red flustered, fuming like a steam engine, raring to unleash swift vengeance upon the snot-nosed little brat. Yet somehow, this time? He can't quite muster any old fury. Porky simply stares, dumbfounded, as she goes on.
"Hah, it's just? I never thought I'd get to say this, is all. Um. Thanks, Pat. For apologizing. It means a whole lot."
"Y.. Yeah. You're welcome." God. He chokes that out as if he's never said it before. Dry and awkward, like a turtle flipped on its back. Feeling about as exposed. Resisting every craven urge to tuck into his shell. Boldly, he asks, "So...? Y'mean, we can...?"
"Talk, n' stuff? Sure. Don't get me wrong - we've still got a lot to sort out, you n' me. And when it comes to small talk, I'm pretty boring, honestly. Ha. So it's probably gonna suck sometimes. I'm, ah... I think I'm alright with that, though."
And god, god, that's terrifying. To think he may have to go through this gauntlet all over again. To withstand the wheeze and burn and crushing pressure, as many times as it takes. To keep sorting the baggage, instead of burying it. But. Behind him sprawls an alligator's jaws. Sharp, snappy, and skeletal. Bleached white with liquor and dread. And before him is Agnes' smile. It's a small curve. A bit crooked. A little pensive. Yet so impossibly, foolishly, unbearably earnest. Porky hasn't seen her smile like that since she was practically the size of a gerbil. To let her down would make him the scum of the Earth for sure.
"I, uh. I think I am, too."
"Cool."
She says, effortlessly. Sounding almost like Ness, or Tracy. Which makes sense, he guesses. He wonders if she's more Kimura than Minch at this point. That would explain just about everything. Wouldn't it. A pang of heartburn jealousy threatens to punish his hubris. Remind him who he really is. Boo-fuckin'-hoo, he tells it. Gimme a break, will ya?
Agnes, meanwhile, steals a quick glance at her phone. Porky thinks he catches a glimpse of an anime lockscreen. Madoka Magica, maybe? Ha. Nah. He can tease her some other time.
"Aw, jeez. But I really should get going..."
"Ah... Same here."
They peel themselves away from the window. Crawl out of the pothos' snare. Agnes decides to grab a scone for the road home, and a cinnamon white chocolate mocha for Tracy, drowning the barista with "thanks so much"es all the while. Porky considers slipping out while her back is turned. Could maybe make it to not-his-car quick enough. Escape unseen and unassociated. He thinks better of it, though. Need he remind you again - contrary to popular playground beliefs, the two of them were not, in fact, raised in a barn. So he waits by the exit. Glares around at the spot where Hipster Glasses was, but has since left, and he's not at all surprised, 'cause hell, it feels like they've been here forever. And at Laptop Guy, who's probably written the whole sequel to the Epic of Gilgamesh, or Hamilton, or some other gay shit, by now. Porky's sense of time isn't what it used to be. Paradoxically, the shift happened pretty quick. Up 'til about three years ago, everything came and went in the blink of an eye. Nowadays? It all may as well take ten thousand years.
But Agnes does join him at the door, sooner or later. With a snack in each hand. Still grinning. As if, at least just for today, things aren't so insurmountably horrible after all.
"You should text me when your flight lands. Let me know you got home safe."
"Hah. Yeah, you always were a worrywart."
"Shut up. And, hey. Whenever you decide where you're moving? Or, uh. If you wanna talk about it some more? Give me a call, won't you? I'd like to know where you're headed."
"Sure. Will do."
"Alright. Well. See ya, Pat."
"Yeah... See ya. Agnes."
Her name still feels funny on his tongue. Whatever. He's sure he'll get used to it.
He holds the door for her, on her way out.
.
