“Frankie Corello,” I announce. “I’m Brandon’s in-law.”
“Sure,” the person answers, opening the door. It swings back to reveal a skinny young man in a giant sweatshirt. “I remember you.”
He doesn’t say anything more than that, simply leaves the door open and walks away. I enter cautiously, checking all the corners and hidden places out of habit. I spot one person at the kitchen table staring into a bowl of cereal. There’s another person on the couch in the living room watching TV.
“Brandon?” I ask.
The person watching television raises his hand. It’s hard to see in the apartment since all the blinds are drawn. Someone has taken the added precaution of hanging a sheet over the window, blocking out even more of the sun’s light. The effect is that the place looks like a vampire’s den. Nobody inside is speaking, and there’s a general low level of energy that permeates all the residents.
“Hey,” I respond, moving over to the couch.
Brandon looks up but doesn’t move. “Frankie.”
“Mind if I come in?” I ask even though I’m already inside.
“No, have a seat,” he replies, moving a pizza box out of the way so I can sit down.
I know Brandon is supposed to be working on his degree, but I don’t see a lot of studying going on here. There are no books or computers anywhere in sight. And there’s a smell that lets me know people aren’t cleaning regularly.
“How are things going?” I ask.
“Same old,” Brandon says. He finally smiles, which is a good sign. But he doesn’t turn the television off. Instead, he gives me about a tenth of his attention, while the other ninety percent is directed at the screen.
“Your sister says hi,” I share.
“How’s she doing?” Brandon asks, but I get the feeling he doesn’t really care.
“She’s good,” I say. “You know, morning sickness and all that.”
“Yeah,” Brandon replies.
“You’re gonna be an uncle,” I tease him, hoping to get some kind of conversation started.
“I’m already an uncle,” Brandon mutters. “Aren’t you my nephew?”
I frown, not wanting to get into the specifics of our very strange family. I want to ask him if I can stay for a while, or if he mindshanging out. But he seems only marginally invested in reality, and I guess he would hardly notice if I moved in and started paying rent. I relax into the chair and swing my gaze to the TV.
It’s a 1980s cop show we’re watching. The actors are all over the top, and the plot line is ridiculous. At first, I’m resistant to watching it, but the more I study the costumes and the setting, the more I’m intrigued.
“He’s never going to catch the guy if he does that,” I say, objecting to one of the chase scenes.
“He always gets his man,” Brandon observes.
“What show is this?” I wonder.
“Crisis Unit,” Brandon says.
“I never heard of it,” I reply.
“Maybe you don’t watch enough television,” Brandon suggests.
“Or maybe you watch too much?” I goad him.
“Whatever,” he mumbles.
I realize that if I push any harder, I’m going to lose the chance to spend any time here. I don’t want to get into a fight with Brandon, and it seems like I should keep my opinions to myself. I’m not actually sure what I’m doing here, but watching this dumb cop show with Marlena’s brother is as good an activity as any I could come up with. In fact, I haven’t come up with anything at all.
I settle down to watch three more episodes before Brandon is motivated to do anything. “Are you hungry?” he asks.
