The Hunt for the Disappearing Little Brother

When I went to Bloomingto visit Rachelle, we planned on going to Oliver Winery for wine tasting, and we invited the LB. He was to graduate in a week and a half and still hadn’t been to Oliver. I wanted to acquaint him with the place.

Because Kevin still had class, Rachelle and I planned to pick him up in front of Swain Hall at 12:30 for his first visit to the winery.

In the morning, after an evening spent in preparation for the winery (by imbibing two bottles of wine), I texted Kevin to remind him we were picking him up. An hour later, I received nothing back. I called him. His phone went straight to voicemail. I sent another texted, then called again ten minutes later. Still, just the voicemail answered.

Kevin went out the night before to Sports for Two Dollar Long Island Night. He smartly posted Facebook something about receiving $32 back for $400 worth of books and how this equaled 16 Long Islands at Sports. My mom saw this.

Anyway, knowing he was most definitely inebriated the previous night, I assumed he came home drunk and forgot to plug his phone in and the battery died. No biggie. I just needed to know if he was at class or at his apartment.

While Rachelle bought my Christmas present (620 thread count sheets!), I called my mom to get my brother’s apartment number. She didn’t know it. She asked why I needed it. Against my better judgment, I had to tell her that Kevin wasn’t answering his phone – that it was going straight to voicemail.

Ok, hold tight…

This is seriously what she said –

“Oh my god, he’s in jail!”

Yes, she equated a dead phone with Kevin in jail. No, no one in my family has dramatic tendencies.

(For the sarcasm-impaired, that was an extremely sarcastic last sentence).

So while i assumed he was drunk and didn't charge his phone, she assumed he was drunk and arrested. That has to say something about my family. Instead of throwing on assumptions on what, I'll let you decide, reader.

I talk with her, try to get her to understand that he would most definitely have called me if he really did get a room in County Lock Up, but she wasn’t swayed.

“Well, what do you want me to do?” I asked. “I have a new phone, and I don’t have anyone’s numbers. Plus, Rachelle and I are out shopping.”

“Erin, I know he’s in jail. I have a bad feeling.” The last time he had a bad feeling a tornado was in the next county and she caused me to lose my phone. But that's a story for another time.

I hang up the phone and shake my head. Rachelle and I head out of Bed Bath and Beyond for the mall and Old Navy.

While in line checking out with a pair of those cute little knit, faux Uggs, she calls me, going on about Kevin in jail again. I close my eyes and think of Key West, Rum Runners, and hot sexy pirates. Nothing good happens. She’s still ranting.

There’s only one way to end my suffering and that is by confirming whether or not Kevin landed in the clutches of the BPD who let him sleep in a cell last night. I call a friend who works for the sheriff’s office back home and get the number for the Monroe Couny jail. Nice as he is, he also tells me to call if Kevin stumbled home and landed in a cell.

Feeling like complete white trash with a meth lab chilling in my kitchen, I call the jail. When they answer, I tell them I need to see if they are holding someone and give our last name. When I was in college, I was the only one in school. Since our last name isn’t Brown, Smith, or Johnson, I’m willing to bet that no other relatives, no matter how distant are, are at IU, much less fulfilling their reservation in the Monroe jail.

She asks for a first name.

Oh my god – I think as I tell her Kevin’s name. He is in jail. He seriously is in jail. I’m in shock.

And as my brain complete’s this image of me in a sleeveless t-shirt (despite in being December), ripped jeans, and LA gear high tops complete with a mullet and a bottle of Stella Artois in hand bailing my little brother out of jail, the voice comes back over the phone and tells me that Kevin is not at the jail.

Feeling the need to reassert myself as an upstanding member of society with a college degree and a middle class background, I said “Oh thank you! His phone is going straight voicemail and my mom is convinced that means he’s in jail.”

She laughed and hung up.

I called my mother and told her that was not, I repeat NOT, in jail.

“You talked to him?” she asked me.

“No, I called the jail.””

“So you didn’t talk to him?” she asks with worry in her voice.

“Um, no,” I said wondering what in the hell could be the problem now. Kevin wasn’t in jail like she predicted so he would be in his bed sleeping off a hangover.

“Oh my god, he could be dead!”

Yes, you read that right. Kevin went from a cot, communal showering, and bartering with cigarettes to being dead.

“Ok, that’s just…a bit…much,” I said trying to control my deep desire to laugh. Kevin? Dead?

“He could be, Erin.”

“Well I think we would’ve gotten a call.”

“Things happen, Erin,” my mom said.

The laughter is welling up in my throat and seeing as how it is 12:15, I tell her we’re heading to meet up with Kevin and I’ll let her know if he is waiting for us like he’s supposed to be.

“What was that about?” Rachelle asks.

“Kevin could be dead.”

Rachelle laughs.

“Yeah, I know. I mean car crashes, things of that sort are possible, but we would be contacted,” I said. She agrees, still laughing as she drives. “And does she think someone is going to jump him and leave him for dead in an alley? He’s a guy. Yeah, that may happen to a small number of guys, but there’s a better chance of it happening to Andrea or me. Frankly, I think Kevin has a better chance of winning the lottery then catching ebola and getting ran over by a bus as he claims his priza money than getting taken out by a group of gang-banging thugs.”

At this point, we are approaching Swain Hall. Kevin is not there. We drive by three times. Kevin is not there. During the drive-bys, my mother texts me to say that my dad knows Kevin’s apartment number.

That is one phone call I do not want to make.

Why?

Because he doesn’t know I’m in Bloomington. Because if I tell him I’m looking for Kevin (to surprise him not because mom thought he was 1-in jail and now 2-dead), I have to tell him that I drove up to Bloomington. When he finds out I’m in Bloomington, I’m going to get to hear about how I should’ve called him and let him know what I was doing and then called to let him know that I made it safely (despite the broken windshield wiper, too!).

It’s not that I intentionally hide things from people. Ok, well maybe it is. But I’m between the ages of 25 and 30, I pay for my own gas, I pay for my own insurance, and frankly I believe most people are on a need to know basis about my plans. Sure, I’ll blog about them after the fact, but what’s done is done and what will be done, well, you’ll know about it once its done.

Fifteen minutes after Kevin was supposed to meet us, I cringe and call my father, prepared to be read the riot act because I like to operate on a need to know basis and frankly, no one needs to know. Luckily, he didn’t say anything. Maybe he is accepting the fact that I am and can take care of myself. He’s driving and can’t remember Kevin’s exact apartment number, but gives me directions.

Rachelle and I follow the directions. We saw Kevin’s little Jetta and walked inside the building. I call my dad to make sure we are knocking on the right door. I think we are and a moment of relief settles over me that we have finally reached the end of the yellow brick road. Emerald City, here we come!

I knock on the door.

I wait and knock again.

And again.

No answer. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Not even the Wicked Witch of the West flies by on her broom to deliver an ominous message about me

I start to cuss and of course, my mom takes the time to call me then. I tell her we still don’t know where he is, that I’m not sure if I’m at his apartment. She calls a friend of his and then gives me the number for one of Kevin’s roommates. I call the roommate. The phone rings to voicemail, and I send a text message explaining what is happening.

There is nothing else to do. We’ve made phone calls, we’ve visited the apartment, we’ve called the jail…so Rachelle and I decide to drive to the winery.

My mom calls us and asks about the roommate. I tell her that he didn’t answer, that I sent him a text. She goes on and on about how he’s dead.

“Mom,” I said, “they’d call us if he was!”

“What if he doesn’t have identification?”

“Did someone mug him then kill him because I’m pretty sure he needs ID to get into Bloomington bars.”

“I’m just saying, Erin. I’m just saying.”

Rachelle laughs. We get to winery and sample some of the Marechal Foch Nouveau and the Sangria Classic. We are having some of the brand new (and amazing) Sparkling Catawba poured for us when my mom calls.

Guess what.

Kevin is okay.

Not only is okay but he spent the night in his own bed not a county cot or a ditch!

She hangs up and Kevin calls me and apologizes.

This is apparently what happened. During the course of the evening, the battery on Kevin’s phone ran dead. When he got home, he plugged in to charge and turned the phone back on. His alarm went off in the morning, he got up, showered, and because he wasn’t feeling to hot (sinuses), he decided to stay home. He forgot that when his phone ran down, he didn’t just have to turn it on, but turn the radio on so his phone would pick up radio waves and phone calls. That is why his phone was going straight to voicemail.

I hate being right.

However, he could've saved us some pain if he had got up and answered the door when he heard someone knocking on it. That's right. Kevin heard us knocking, admitting to hear us knocking, but rolled over and went back to sleep.

Because he sounds bad, I bite my tongue to keep from castigating, and I tell him I’m going to pick some stuff up for him. Rachelle and I finish the tasting and I buy two bottles of Traminette, a bottle of the sparking Catawba, the Sangria Classic, Chardonel, Muscat Canelli, and Voignier.

When I get there I tell Kevin the story.

He gapes at me. “She thought I was in jail,” he asked incredulously.

I nod my head. “And when I proved you weren’t in jail, you were dead.”

“Wow,” he said in that loving sarcastic voice that matches mine. “Wow.”

“Yeah, dead. Seriously.”

“What? Does she think someone’s going to gangbang me and leave me for dead?”

I laughed. “I don’t know, Kevin. I don’t know.”

After we left, I apologized to Rach for having to search for my brother with me.

She laughed. “I didn’t have to work today,” she good-naturedly said. “I just wanted to spend time with my sister (we’ve adopted each other). And I can’t say that this wasn’t exactly entertaining.”

I laughed. She was right. It did make for interesting day.

She laughed again. “And I can’t read to read about this in your blog.”

Well, Rach…Enjoy!

The Wiper Blade of Destiny and My Young Life

My trips to IU are always eventful.

This is mainly because my beloved Indiana University is located in a town that is in BFE. Literally. It’s an hour south of Indianapolis and at least an hour off of Interstates 65 and 64. No matter where you’re coming from, you will be on a 2-lane (one lane in each direction) twisty-turny, hilly highway.

And I have no patience.

My lack of patience and lead-foot earned my little Neon the title of the “Corporate Jet.”

During my tenure at IU I was pulled over…5(?) times and received two tickets and one warning. I took online defensive driving twice and accidentally flashed an officer one time.

Yes, it was an accident. A button popped open and like a true classy college student, my hot pink bra was on display. I noticed this later when I got home and family was kind of enough to point it out. No ticket or warning was issued that time and I was about 15 miles over the speed limit.

Now, I’m fine until I get to Bloomfield. After Bloomfield, I put on Rammstein or some other angry music to get the adrenaline pumping because after Bloomfield, it’s the two-lane twisty-turny, hilly highway and I refuse to drive behind someone going less than 50 miles an hour when I can drive the highway at 65 easy.

I’ve driven the highway more times than I wanted to and while there are a total of four areas for passing in the state’s eyes, in my eyes, there are oh so many more, especially in the winter when the leaves are off the trees and you can see around curves.

Like all trips to Bloomington, my trip up this Tuesday proved eventful – and it was because I was flashing cops to get out of tickets or scoping out new passing zones. No, my trip was more than memorable because of a wiper blade.

On Tuesday, it rained and rained and rained and when I decided to leave to see my Rachelle, it decided to rain even harder. Of course, Murphy’s Law.

I have my windshield wipers on, naturally.

After about an hour driving, a notice that something funny is going on with the top of my driver-side wiper blade. I try, try, try to ignore it, but thirty minutes later, I pull over into a gas station and check out the situation.

The wiper blade is protruding about three inches out doodad and the wiper is forked. I study the blade and figure out how it fits together, than shove it back into the doodad.

I have a moment of utter ingenious wash over me at how I managed to take care of the problem so efficiently.

I drive on. The wiper is working beautifully.

However, 20 miles down the road, the wiper is back to its tricks. The problem is I’m right smack dab in the very middle of BFE. There is nowhere to stop. There isn’t even a side of the road to pull over onto. Not only that, but the sky has done from dark to pitch black.

I shake my head and drive on.

The blade gets worse. Even more of the blade is forked and falling apart.

I cuss but turn my radio up. I can see, I’m not far from Bloomington, and once I’m there will see who laughs longest, Mr. Wiper Blade.

I didn’t laugh.


No, when the wiper peel apart like a banana and flew over my windshield to land on the dark, wet pavement, I was not laughing.

I was panicking.

It was pitch black outside. There was no side of the road, no streetlights, only curves, hills, and the blurry taillights of the car in front of me.

Both of my hands grabbed at the steering wheel. I decelerated from 50 mph to 30. It was impossible to see.

This is it – that was my only thought.

This is really how I’m going to go out.

The wiper blade was my executioner and my gold Saturn was Charon navigating me across River Styxx to my final place of rest.

Dramatic, I know, but I knew I was surrounded by curving hills and had absolutely no vision…when this happens to you, come back and tell me how clearly you thought.

I wouldn’t be there to give Rachelle her wine glasses. I wouldn’t get to see my sister open her gifts. I wouldn’t get to play with the gift I got my cousin Brenton – the Lego Pirate Ship, I wouldn’t see my dog, and no, I still couldn’t fit into an Express size two (although my hair would look great, thanks Andrea!).

There was no living to old age (although the upside to that is no wrinkles or gravity taking its toll on my breasts and ass), no seeing my nieces or nephews been be born, seeing my siblings be married, no cloning my dog, and I definitely wasn’t going to find out if there was a man alive that could tolerate me for long enough to go crazy and ask me to marry him.

And I wasn’t even going out in a cool fashion. No one had killed me, no diseases had overtaken my immune system. No, I had would have to die because a wiper blade. Who dies because of a wiper blade!? Me, obviously.

Since I’m writing this blog, I am obviously still alive.

I was finally able to slow to a speed where I could ascertain some shapes. And one of the shapes I made out was an abandoned gas station about 8-10 miles from Bloomington.


I stopped and called Bill, Rachelle’s husband. No answer. I called Rachelle who was on her way home from work. She answered and I told her the situation.

I was beginning to calm down. I had survived and at the very least, I would wait in the car until Rachelle got to me, the worst of my fears would be pissing my pants (suddenly, I had a bladder the size of a walnut and I had to go).

We talked more. And then I got the bright idea to drive leaning across my console and looking out the passenger window to drive. And drive I did to Rachelle’s house, keeping the car on the road and my pants dry when I finally pulled into her drive.

The next morning, freezing and snowing in Bloomington, Rachelle and I went to get my Christmas present (620 thread count sheets that are smooth like butter and I love them, girl!) and we stopped at a body shop by the mall. We were looking up the wiper blade size and worker offered to help us.

“What kind of car do you have?” he asked.

“A 2001 Saturn,” I said.

“What kind?”

“I have no idea,” I replied. “My uncle owns a body shop and told me it was a good car to buy.”

He laughed. “Yeah, you’re not the first Saturn owner to not know what her car is.”

He looked up the different Saturn’s. I don’t own the big luxury car, so there were only two choices left. Both had used a 22-inch wiper blade on the driver side.

After shopping (and searching for the brother which is ANOTHER story), we came home for Bill to change the wiper blade. Not only was the blade frozen, but we noticed it was the wrong size.

I packed up my stuff and went over to the body shop to return the blade. Another guy was working and he went out with me pulled the make and model of the car and looked it up. Yep, the 22-inch blade was right. Which meant that someone had put the wrong blade on my car the last time I had the blade changed.

Why am I not surprised.

But, at least I’d lived to get the blade changed!