Scorpions by Evan Burkin

My brother taught me how to catch scorpions in Death Valley. One word: pitfalls. Mikey and I would spend an evening near a large rockface—one with a lot of cuts and cracks; little guys fit anywhere—and we’d dig holes and place jars in ’em. We’d mark our traps with bright colored rocks and sleep in the back of his Tacoma.

It was the one time we could really talk. At home, Dad was one giant red ant. Any disturbance to his space left us both with red, dime-sized bites. With him shit out of work for nearly a year, silence was the protocol. And at school, Mikey couldn’t be caught hanging out with his little brother. Easy enough to imagine the dumb rumors that would spread. “Two little butt buddies, huh?” “They probably still share a bed.”

They wouldn’t have bothered me. But Mikey wouldn’t have brushed it off if people started circle jerking my name to get a laugh. He’d have kicked someone’s ass. And kicking one person’s ass would have started a chain. Asses would have needed kicking until he left town.

But out in the blank slate of desert, peppered only by  stars and animals chattering about their hunger, Mikey would talk about leaving and what I needed to do to get out too. “You gotta find a car, bro. And apply for your license, dammit. You drive better than half them pencil-dicked fucks in my class.”

It felt like the moon’s light went past my skin and filled up my chest when he would describe juniors that way. It made me think he saw something special in me. I was bigger than this town. In the same boat as him.

“Any rust bucket will do,” he told me so many times. “Wire the damn thing if you have to the day you graduate. As long as you get out of town before it breaks down, you’re in the pink.”

It didn’t matter if Mikey got into any of the LA or Bay Area schools he applied to or the ones in Oregon or Washington. He was going to get in his truck on graduation day and drive.

“I know Dad ain’t going to be there. I only want to get that diploma to wipe my ass with it. Then I’m hopping in the car—I’ll be sure to have a full tank—and drop my foot on the pedal. I’ll gun it until I hit the coast. Santa Monica, Malibu, Santa Barbara. Doesn’t matter. I ain’t stopping unless that needle is teasing that big E. And when I hit the coast, I’m going to wade into the big blue butt naked. A rebirth, ya know. Then I’ll cruise the One, take my time, find something to hold me over. I’m thinking farmwork. They got a bunch of little towns with vineyards and animals north of San Francisco. Milk some cows. Collect eggs.”

His story crept into my dreams. I’d be there beside him, drinking Cola and holding my hand out the window, waiting for the first touch of salt air. Then there would be the great expanse of the Pacific before me and its whitewash touching my feet, wrapping around my ankles, then my knees, my junk my stomach, my chest. By the end of the dream, I’d be submerged, letting the water pull my hair upward.

Each time he talked felt like an invitation. I wanted to go. I wanted to get out. He even brought it up once. “I’ll take you, ya know. If you think you’ll be too scared to move out when your time comes. I’m scared, too. What if it feels too quiet?”

I worried that I would slow him down. That our trip would fall apart the moment I needed to use a restroom. Mikey, hold up, I need to use the can. Mikey, can we grab some water? Mikey, I can’t do it. I can’t cut a chicken’s head off. It wouldn’t be me and him against the world, but him against everything else. I decided it was better for us to meet when we were both going 100 miles an hour.

A month before graduation, a drunk mowed him down on the 10. I had the dream again that night: 11 hours after his death. When I woke up, the moon left a heavy coat on my skin. It took a long time for me to realize how much hope Mikey had planted into his graduation.

The next day, I got to rebuilding his truck. When it was done, I got my license and applied to the same schools he did. When graduation came around, I took my diploma and ran for my truck without a second thought. With one hand out the window, I wondered when I would feel a change in temperature. How Dad would feel with the quiet he always wanted. When  the Cane family would find the ten scorpions I left around their house and the fifteen I slipped into their SUV, the one that dislocated Mikey’s right arm, fractured both his eye sockets, and crushed his chest, snapping six ribs.

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EVAN BURKIN — Evan (he/him) is working toward an MFA in Creative Writing at San Francisco State University and serves as the co-EIC for the university’s grad-run literary journal, Fourteen Hills. His work has been published or is forthcoming in New American Writing, River Styx, THRUSH, The Argyle, Birdcoat Quarterly, and elsewhere.

Art by CASEY EISIMINGER — Casey is a librarian by day and an artist by night. She’s inspired by all things magical, both real and imaginary. She lives in Texas with her husband and three cats. You can find her on Instagram @oleandermilk_art.