Chapter CXI: The Battle For Charlie's Lungs

"I knew I shouldn't have gone out today," he says.

"We went to Target to buy water! That doesn't count as going out!" I reply incredulously.

"I foretold this. I knew I'd go buy cigarettes if I left the house," he explains. "And I was going to try quitting today, too."

The bump-bump of the tires going over the curb punctuates this statement, as if the universe is saying, 'Yeah, right.'

"Charlie, that's stupidest thing I've ever heard. If you can't drive past 7-11 without buying cigarettes, how do you expect to stop smoking! C'mon, let's just go home," I say. "Is it really that hard to quit?"

"Yes. And if you ever start smoking, I'll fucking kill you."

I grasp for an eloquent way to express myself, but it's like trying to catch a football (I have never done this successfully). We pull into a parking spot. So I just say it.

"I just don't want you to die of lung cancer, because I'll feel like it's my fault for not doing more to stop you."

"You don't understand, Jerry. There's nothing anyone can do to stop someone from smoking, so there's no reason to feel bad," he throws back.

"What is it, like the Dark Side or something?" I mutter after he gets out of the car.

Is it a strange role reversal. Charlie was supposed to be the protective one, not me. Growing up together in a tensely dysfunctional family, my older brother by five years had been my best friend and constant guide. He gave me piggy back rides simulating the Death Star trench run, and once risked life and limb to pull me out the path of a van backing out of a driveway while I was obliviously playing with worms in the gutter.

The sudden thump of car doors unlocking interrupts my reverie. Charlie's back already? He must have been gone less than half a minute.

Certainly too little time to buy a pack of cigarettes. I smile.

"Why'd you changed your mind?" I ask, when he opens the door.

"Um, can you hand me my wallet?"