Two years ago, someone broke into our place and cleaned us out, my mom and I. Everything that was worth anything. I’m holding one of those things in my hands right now. Fuck me. I’m not surprised, but I am mad.

It’s weird. I haven’t played my accordion in two years. Yeah, he stole it. I suppose he couldn’t unload it or he had a flash of conscience and held onto it. Whatever the case, he didn’t give it back because, obviously, we’d know who robbed our place. Which I knew anyway, because, duh. Plus, how much money could he get for an outdated 1970s Paolo Soprani that needs new reeds. They don’t even make them like this anymore. What a shit.

The weekend we were robbed, mom and I were at the lake. Sunday night we came back, the door was locked, but our stuff was gone. That’s why I thought Jason did it. He has a key and he’s a junkie.

Of course mom didn’t think so. Mom, he’s always high. He sells drugs and steals things from other people. But she said there’s no way. He wouldn’t steal from his own family. Even if she believed he robbed the house, and she probably does but won’t admit it, it wouldn’t make any difference. She wouldn’t do anything about it.

Since dad, gran and gramp died and my brother hit the drugs, she just broods. Our mom used to be angry as fuck all the time. We couldn’t sit through an entire meal without her yelling at someone or about someone. Not sure which is worse, angry mom or miserable mom.

There’s no curtains on the living room window. Anyone on the street could see me standing here playing “Auld Lang Syne,” feeling guilty holding onto stolen goods, even though the thing’s mine. Guess it’s because I’m stealing it back. And because I’m here to snoop.

This was gran’s place. Druggy lives here for free. At mom’s, I pay the mortgage. She pays taxes and utilities at both places. God! You wouldn’t catch me paying for Druggy’s cable.

She hates it when I call him Druggy. But it’s not like I came up with that name. No one in town calls him Jason. Everyone calls him Druggy; even his drug friends.

One less of those bad influences to worry about now. Last night, Druggy hit the ditch in his rusted-out three-quarter-ton truck and put his buddy, Suitcase, through the windshield. They call him Suitcase because he once hid drugs in his ass. Or maybe he did that a whole bunch of times. So gross. I never asked for the full story.

I haven’t been in this place for maybe two years, neither has mom. At the hospital, Druggy was way gone on meds, so I just took his keys.

QUITE THE SLOB

Druggy never cleans gran’s place. On the hardwood in the living room, there’s three glass ashtrays full of butts, some Slurpee cups. At the foot of the basement stairs, a pile of empty beer cans and bottles. As far as I know, he doesn’t have a cat but the litter box by the back door is full of petrified turds. Two full garbage bags and an overflowing trash can in the kitchen. The bedroom smells sour, like unwashed laundry. A pile of sheets and quilts on a bare mattress. All Druggy’s clothes are heaped in his closet even though there’s a hundred hangers in there. Seriously.

On the closet shelf, bingo! There’s what’s left of his action figures. He used to have an entire closet at mom’s filled with these asshole kiddy toys all in their original boxes. Now, there’s six in dusty, ratty old packaging. The Six Million Dollar Man, something called Spawn, a Tiger Woods doll, of all things. I should take these. Maybe get something for them on EBay. But then I see his guitar. One by one I dropkick his precious dolls down the hallway into the wall, into the ceiling.

Leaning against the bedroom wall, hidden behind a piece of plywood, is a black hard-shell case. In it is a red Gibson SG that he bought before the drugs. We’re a musical family, the two kids anyway. Druggy’s band, Frightenstien, gigs at Gustavo’s the odd time. Nothing good, just ’70s classic rock, like everything from Dark Side of the Moon and Zeppelin IV. The second time Suitcase quit the band, I actually took his place as bassist. And they’d get me to play accordion on Procol Harum’s “Conquistador.” Also not my thing. But I quit a few weeks before the house was robbed. No one ever showed up for practice, plus they were drunk and high all the time, so whenever we’d play shows, we sucked. Plus, I tried to get them to play a Weezer song and Druggy actually thought it was a huge laugh: “Fuck you, Art School!” They were all just killing themselves, like Weezer’s Chinese opera or something.

Suitcase rejoined the band after I left, but with him dead they’ll need a new bass player again. And Druggy won’t be able to wipe his own ass much less play guitar for a year.

Because of its awkward shape, I practise swinging the guitar by its strap, which is held tight with silver strap locks. Round and round like hammer toss at the Highland Games. I wind up and let it go off the highway overpass north of this place. I was sort of aiming for the train tracks, but it’s going for the trees. The strap flaps against the fret board a couple of times then the body nails a treetop — BOING! It falls straight down and the strap snags on a branch halfway to the ground. It just hangs there. I guess I kind of hoped it’d smash into a million pieces.

A maroon minivan drives past in the far lane. The driver, a big native man, carefully pretends not to notice me. He glances off towards the city on the opposite side of the overpass. I flip the case over the railing.

The sun’s nearly down. Headlights are coming at me from both directions. Suddenly, I’m confused and I tear up. Bad butterflies in my stomach, I jam my cold hands in my hoodie pocket and scamper down the hill to my car.

TOO MUCH PAIN

He’s much too old for an eyebrow ring, but there it is, still infected after all these years. Twenty maybe?

It was quite the struggle, but mom and I got him into the front seat and now he’s breathing heavy with pain. He’s like a cartoon accident victim. Four casts and a neck brace sticking out of a puffy down vest. He was totally poker-faced on the wheelchair ride out of the hospital, but he did say “Thanks” a dozen times.

Right now, we don’t look much alike, Druggy and me, but without his swelling and scabs, we’re like fraternal twins. Brown curls, pointy faces, freckles. We got our looks from our dead dad, but Druggy got his addictive personality from our mother.

“Kathleen, stop by the Sev’ on 20th,” mom says once she’s in the back seat and buckled up. Speaking of cartoon people, her voice is like a cartoon hag voice. She needs smokes. She’s smoked hard since she was 15. Her buzzy old windpipe’s got to be pre-cancerous from top to bottom. When I think about mom, my thoughts are about that: cancer. It’s just what’s going to happen.

We’re a wreck of a family. She’s an enabler stuck in denial over Druggy’s substance abuse, and my head’s totally caved in from both their bullshit. Since I moved back in with mom, I watch Intervention religiously. It soothes me to see other families in our situation, perhaps even worse. Mom can’t stand it, probably for the reason I love it.

Mom hops out without a word at the convenience store. As she walks from the car, I’m struck — Jesus, offended — by the fact she can’t quite get all the elements of her look to match: short-cropped walnut hair, an oversized fleece-lined jean jacket, slacks and a monster handbag. I’ve got no more patience for her. We spend a lot of time together, but I hardly say boo. Which just makes me feel worse about myself.

Druggy pushes his head back stiffly, opens his mouth like he’s going to talk but doesn’t for a full 30 seconds. He’s trying to push something out before mom gets back in the car. I wait him out. Finally, “I have something for you,” he stammers.

“What?” I ask coldly. We haven’t had anything close to a conversation since the robbery. Also, guess who only visited him at the hospital once while he was unconscious?

“No, seriously, I have something for you. I borrowed it a long time ago and, well.” He just stops.

Of course he’s talking about the accordion. And now I really, really don’t want to hear another word from him. “When you…” he starts back in, but I say I’ve got to run into the store for a sec. Returning with mom as my shield, we drive off.

As we pull onto the avenue, Druggy uses the two good fingers on his left hand to turn the radio on. He scans until he finds something suitably ’70s. So I’m stuck with Diesel’s “Sausalito Summernight.” Look out over here, Watch out over there, mlah mlah mlah mlah mlah. Coincidentally, Frightenstien used to do that song. It was the worst song in their set. Drugged-up Druggy just couldn’t play the God damned needly, needly solo.

My blood’s pumping so hard I feel impaired, like I shouldn’t be driving. It’s like my usual stewing about Druggy and mom, but on steroids. And now I suppose he thinks he’s going to straighten himself out like he’s learned something and he’s going to come out of it all rose smelling. My brother is the worst person I know. If he thinks I’m going to bawl like those families on Intervention and welcome his decision to get straight with open arms and support and whatever. Then, whatever. He can just…

“Ah, fuck it,” Druggy says under his breath. He turns the volume up on the radio and leans my way just a bit so mom can’t hear him.

“Take Gran’s house,” he says without emotion. “I’m leaving town.”

My head goes empty as a balloon. There’s a light skiff of new snow on the fields as we reach the overpass. There it is, still just hanging there, far off but plain as day against the whiteness. It’s been out in the elements for a month.

Druggy snorts cheerfully. “Hey, check it out! Some fuckin’ loser’s guitar.”

Ian Doig is a local writer and a former editor in chief of Fast Forward Weekly.