One in the ChamberBrian Murray

Paul had not intended on leaving the comfort of his secluded studio apartment that Friday night.

Tomorrow was the Fourth of July, and he was perfectly content to amuse himself mindlessly by surfing

the Internet with his MacBook. He refreshed Facebook, Twitter, Gmail, Reddit and even his neglected

Tumblr in a senseless, cyclical sequence on his twin-sized navy bed. He had plans tomorrow to see some

friends from the University of San Francisco whom he had met that summer at a writer’s workshop that

focused on flash fiction. They planned to meet at Alan’s loft in the Outer Mission District. From there,

they would proceed to get exceedingly drunk and/or high before climbing on the roof and gawking at the

explosive colors of the fireworks over the Bay. Paul’s completion of his self-imposed weekly obligation

to get together with people he viewed as friends would be fulfilled by this holiday outing. Accordingly, he

awarded himself with a night of lazy indulgence, lying sideways with his head propped up, scrolling

through feed after endless feed.

Paul flirted indifferently with sleep, laying his head down and closing his eyes. The soft ping of a

message notification from Alan roused him every few minutes. They were discussing possible story ideas

for their next piece of flash fiction, but the conversation had devolved into increasingly silly proposals.

“A new techno-drug named ‘Compound T’ teleports its users to an extra-dimensional space

where they have free reign over the laws of physics.”

“Donald Trump wins the Republican presidential nomination and tries to sabotage Clinton’s

campaign by hiring prostitutes disguised as interns to seduce Bill.”

“Jesus Christ returns to Earth as a disobedient little punk and uses his godly abilities to get laid

and become a celebrity”.

“The tide of gentrification is reversed and apartments around the Mission District actually

become affordable.”

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When 1:30 A.M. came around, Paul no longer felt like messaging Alan. He had resigned himself

to sleep when he was disturbed by the Portugal. The Man song “Evil Friends” reverberating from

underneath the sheets.

“But I can't even be your friend/ I can't even be your friend/ I can't even be your friend.”

His iPhone 5s displayed the number (415) 912-1814 without a contact name. Paul normally

ignored unknown numbers. The late night timing of this call made him hesitate even further. He paused,

staring at the vibrating, ringing screen. Oh, what the hell.

“Hello?”

“PAUL, omigod how are you?”

“Um, who is this?”

“Jeeez Paul, it’s Sarah! Your sister! Didja forget about me!?”

Paul was thoroughly embarrassed that he failed to recognize his own sister’s voice. But why was

his sister calling him from an unknown number so late? He closed his eyes and ran his hand through his

long brown, unkempt hair.

“Oh shit! Hey Sarah! Why are you calling me so late? You sound drunk.”

“Yeah, well, because of Brad! It’s all his fault! Fucking Brad broke up with me! He left me, and

now he’s already taking pictures with some Asian skank!”

Paul furrowed his eyebrows. He thought about his recent breakup with Ashley. Something serious

must have occurred for Sarah’s boyfriend of two years to abruptly leave her. Although the couple had

recently transitioned to long-distance, Paul was sure that the next time he would hear about them would

be in the form of a wedding invitation. He didn’t know if they would ask him to be a groomsman.

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The soft cotton bedsheets had steadily grabbed a hold of him and were compelling him to sleep.

He considered how he could quickly satisfy his familial duty to comfort his distraught sister and go to

sleep.

“Oh man Sarah, I had no idea. I’m really sorry. I know you’ll be back on your feet in no time.”

“Yeah! Screw Brad! I hope he gets STDs from the next whore he plows!”

Paul blushed a little. Wow, she’s gone.

“Look anyways, I lost my phone, and I need you to walk me home.”

“Um, wait a sec. You want me to come get you?” inquired Paul. Here was his sister, about to

pursue her M.B.A. in the fall with a few years of successful marketing already behind her, drunkenly

asking Paul to walk her back like some lost teenage girl. She was pushing thirty and proved to be the

responsible sibling after she cleaned up Paul’s vomit when he drank too much in high school.

“Yeah Paul! Haven’t you HEARD about all the muggings happening lately?! Look, this guy isn’t

gonna let me use his phone much longer and the bar is closing soon. My apartment isn’t even THAT far!”

“Ok, ok, where are you?” asked Paul, though he had an idea of her location from the sound of

blaring Mexican music and the rowdy crowd noise.

“Zeitgeist!”

Paul had to suppress a groan. Great.

“Alright, I’ll be there in ten.”

“Ok bye lil bro! See you here!”

Odd. Surreal. Unannounced. These were the words Paul was thinking that described his sister’s

surprise call. The red and yellow SFSU Class of 2016 t-shirt he was currently wearing would be fine for

the walk. He completed his outfit with a pair of fitted blue jeans and left his apartment.

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His sister’s call prompted Paul to think about the last time he talked to his parents. It must have

been around finals when he gave them a call to say he was staying in the city over the summer. His Dad

was distant, like his mind was fixated on something looming over him. Paul felt the strain of carrying on a

conversation with someone half-paying attention so he asked if his mom was near to talk. He spoke to his

mom for a few minutes bantering back and forth with small talk. She didn’t probe him, just asked how his

studies were coming along, reminding him to contact his sister. He said he would and they texted each

other a few times, but they had yet to get together. Their impending meet-up was kept in the back of

Paul’s mind. However, Zeitgeist would not have been his first choice for a reunion.

The dive bar was always crowded, thick with choking cigarette smoke, and the drinks were

criminally overpriced. Incidentally, it was also where his former girlfriend Ashley, a classmate in his

Kafka seminar, had been picked up by some yuppie scum. Paul’s friend Tory was there that Saturday

night to catch Ashley on video ferociously kissing a skinny professional who seemed totally out of place

in an expensive suit. Ashley and Paul were dating for eight months, and Paul repeatedly told Ashley that

he felt uncomfortable with her going to bars without him. He confided in Ashley that he could never be

with a cheater, and although Ashley subsequently relayed a frightening story of her hookup coercing her

into smoking methamphetamine, the cheating irreconcilably hurt Paul. He felt like he would be a liar and

a deceiver if he didn’t break up with her. Sarah had certainly chosen the right place to lose herself.

On the way to the bar, Paul thought about how his life had diverged from his sister’s. He was

majoring in English at San Francisco State University and had a vague idea of becoming a writer.

However, he didn’t have much to show in the way of circulated writing other than the infrequent stream-

of-consciousness blog posts on his WordPress about the mundanities of his isolated life. “From my

experience, the excruciating iciness of cold showers far outweighs any bodily utility gained from this

torture. I mean, who in their right mind would purposely douse themselves in anything less than 60

degrees. I barely lasted thirty seconds in there. Alan is such a worthless hipster for recommending the

idea to me.” – September 2014.

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Paul found out via a Facebook status that his sister was coming to California. He was the eighty-

first person to like it.

“So incredibly humbled and blessed to be accepted into Wharton’s Semester in San

Francisco M.B.A. program!!!! I’m ecstatic to start this exciting new chapter of my life!”

Eventually, Paul texted his sister congratulating her and offered a humble spot on his couch for

her to stay, but she predictably declined his offer and rented her own place. Because of his East Coast

upbringing, Paul had always viewed the West Coast through an idyllic filter as an endless stretch of

beaches where people spontaneously became more liberated, relaxed and tan. But his sister’s presence, in

which she would continue her slimy, money-obsessed business education, encroached on his solipsistic

existence and the sun-drenched view of California as a stoner’s paradise. Nonetheless, here Paul was,

arriving at a bar he reviled, about to walk his drunk-ass sister back to her much more expensive two-

bedroom apartment.

Paul was annoyed that Sarah wasn’t already outside the bar waiting for him. He presented his ID

to the callous bouncer and wandered in looking for her. He found her stationed at the bar in a skimpy

black dress downing a shot with a man.

“Oh, there’s my brother! Bye Devin, thanks for the drinks and letting me borrow your phone!”

Sarah exclaimed as she slung her bright yellow purse over her shoulder. She jumped on Paul giving him a

surprisingly strong bear hug that nearly lifted him off his feet.

“My name’s Dillan, not Devin,” he corrected.

“Oh, I’m sorry! Don’t be angry!” replied Sarah as she finished embracing Paul.

“It’s ok. Maybe you could make up for it by coming back to my place for some more tequila,”

persisted the man. He drifted in front of the two siblings as they walked toward the exit.

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“She’s leaving with me, ok? She’s had a rough night and needs to be with family.” Paul hardly

believed that Sarah needed to be with him that night, but hearing the words come from his mouth made

the sentiment feel true.

“BAR’S CLOSED!” shouted the exhausted bartender.

The man turned around and glared at Paul.

“Hey, look asshole I wasn’t talking to you, I…”

“You guys need to get out of here now. It’s 2 a.m., we’re closed,” asserted the bouncer. Paul used

the brief interruption to hurriedly scuttle his inebriated sister out of the bar and away from her would-be

hookup with his arm around her waist to keep her from collapsing.

“Omigod Paul that guy was so creepy! I’m so glad to see you!!” Sarah held onto his waist,

supporting herself against him as he continued to walk along the sidewalk.

“Your place is on Taylor St. right?” Paul asked knowing they had about a mile and a half trek

ahead of them. There was little point in attempting to have any type of intelligent conversation. The walk

would help sober her up too.

When they passed the intersection of Van Ness Ave and Market St., Sarah implored, “Let’s go up

Van Ness instead!”

“Why?”

“So we can avoid the Tenderloin, and not get killed!”

Sarah did have a point. Paul stopped them and considered the implications of continuing down

Market St. and traversing the Tenderloin. Paul weighted the potential danger that might befall them if

they decided to cross the open air drug market, occupied by drug pushers, junkies, crackheads, tweakers

and other lowlifes versus the extra half hour added to their trip if they took Van Ness Ave. Paul, half-

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asleep and progressively losing his remaining patience, could only drag Sarah’s dead weight along so

much farther, and the stink of her alcoholic breath agitated him. Plus, in his experience, most of the

homeless residents of the Tenderloin were too high to harass people walking by.

“It’s ok, we’ll get you home faster if we cut across the Tenderloin.”

“Nooooooooooooooooo”, Sarah protested but Paul hauled her along anyway.

Around O’Farrell St. was where they hit trouble. Though there were plenty of destitute

vagabonds that made them uncomfortable, some who hollered at Sarah and her tight black dress and

others offering cheap smack or crack, the duo were left unscathed until they crossed O’Farrell, the last

street of the Tenderloin.

Paul and Sarah passed under a dark red sign advertising, “We Ship Wine” and walked by a 24-

hour parking garage. A hooded figure in black turned the corner ahead and came walking toward them.

They were sandwiched in a narrow path between a building under renovation and a construction fence,

which blocked their access to the road. When the two came close enough, the man, still obstructed by his

oversized hood, whipped out a shimmering switchblade from the pocket of his hoodie and held it out in

front of them steadily, cocked and ready.

“Give me your wallets.”

Paul and Sarah stood there stiff with fear, staring at the thief. The goon encroached on the two

with his switchblade raised. He swiftly grabbed Paul’s face, eliciting a cry from Sarah, and pulled him

closer, staring at him at point blank range. Paul could now make out the man’s sunken face, filled with

dark facial scars and sores. His blade met the middle of his neck, making contact with his Adam’s apple.

“Don’t make me ask twice.”

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Paul cringed and tried to make eye contact with Sarah, but the attacker kept gazing into his eyes

with his spotted face, applying pressure to Paul’s neck. He reached in his front pocket for his wallet

instead.

“Get your wallet out Sarah. Please just do what he says,” Paul whimpered.

Sarah stood up straight, reached into her purse, took out a small Smith & Wesson Model 29

revolver and aimed it at the man’s vulnerable head. At the glint of the Dirty Harry steel, the would-be

mugger let go of Paul and dashed off. Sarah returned the gun to her purse.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Paul put his hands behind his neck to try to catch his breath. His mouth

was wide open.

“When did you get a gun?! Sarah? Sarah! Why are you carrying a gun around?” Paul would never

have guessed that his sister had bought a gun, a revolver no less.

“Sarah, where did you get the gun? I mean, obviously I’m grateful you brought it, but why buy a

gun in the first place?”

Sarah remained silent. Paul stopped walking, but Sarah continued onward so he was forced to

keep up with her.

“Are you going to answer me? Hello?”

She didn’t respond to his questions, just looked straight ahead, and they silently walked the

remaining way to her apartment at the Biltmore.

“For real, please answer me.”

Nothing.

“You have to answer me, goddamnit! I’m your brother!”

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Upon reaching the entrance to her building on Taylor St., Paul turned to look at a substantially

more sober Sarah, “If you had this gun the whole time, why did you need me to walk you home?” Paul

demanded, genuinely confused.

“Look.” Sarah opened the chamber of the revolver. There was only a single bullet. “I have been

bad, Paul. Like, things have been really, really bad. I loved Brad so much. I thought we would get

married, stay in love forever and have a beautiful family one day. But he couldn’t handle the distance, I

guess, and he left me. So I’m out here alone in San Francisco with none of my friends to comfort me, and

I start to think these horrible, terrible thoughts. I didn’t know if I could keep going on. I bought this

revolver online. For its potential. I would put one bullet in, spin it around and give myself up to death

before I go out and get plastered. The odds would eventually catch up to me so I thought, I don’t know, I

would reach out to you before I, well, you know, really hurt myself. To make me feel like I was family

and I mattered to someone.”

Tears were rolling down her face, ruining her makeup and creating black vertical streaks along

her red cheeks.

“Oh Sarah…,” Paul embraced his sister, holding her tightly for a solid minute. Paul himself had

never been close with his family, but at this instant, she made him believe he could change that. He

needed to change that. No more lonely nights with his MacBook while his sister was in the city.

“They didn’t want me to tell you until it was finalized but Mom and Dad are getting divorced

too,” Sarah admitted as she wiped away her salty tears. “I just can’t deal with it all by myself anymore,

Paul. It’s too much.”

“What? Oh my god, you are joking right?” Paul demanded.

She shook her head.

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“Fuck.” Paul held his face in his hands. The night was becoming a bit too much for him to

handle, but he looked at his trembling sister and realized that he could at least make her feel better.

“It’s ok, we’ll be, we’ll be ok, Sarah, I promise,” Paul stressed. “Hey how about this, why don’t

you come to my friend’s apartment tomorrow to watch fireworks with us? We can hang out and catch up.

We can even go get you a new phone beforehand. If you aren’t too hungover of course.” Paul smiled at

his sister.

“Yeah, Paul, I think that would be great.” She wiped away the tears with the back of her hand.

“Ok, I’ll come by your place tomorrow. You can tell me what’s going on with Mom and Dad

then too.”

“Paul?” Sarah asked as she grabbed his arm, stopping him from going down the steps of her

apartment.

“Yeah?”

“Happy 4th of July.”

At least Paul had finally found his idea for his next flash fiction story.

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