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first so . . . fucked up?
    No matter what his poor, sick brother believed, suicide took a type of wilfulness he didn’t think Chris capable of. If he had just shown as much determination and conviction for anything else in his life . . .
                  He couldn’t let himself think about it. He had to just get through the funeral and the wake and the next week or two, and eventually he would be fine . . . he would be fine. Everything will be okay.
                  The apartment was so quiet he could hear water running in the pipes from somewhere in the building. He placed his hand against the cold surface of the bathroom door. Had they cleaned up the mess? Probably not. Of course he would have to do it himself. Metaphorically speaking that seemed about right.
                  He gripped the door knob but couldn’t turn it. He just couldn’t. He needed coffee.
                 
    A half an hour later he was in the parking lot of Mcdonald’s drinking a large black coffee, thankful that they had replaced that old swill they used to serve. It was actually good now.
                  He had the windows rolled down but cranked the AC anyway because it relaxed him.
                  Some black kids in an Impala on the other side of the parking lot were blaring a Kanye West song. It was a good song. He thought maybe it was about not being able to find love because he was obsessed with his career. That sounded familiar. It had been somewhat of a big deal when was able to go ahead and cancel the remainder of his appointments for the week. Even Margret seemed surprised. Is that what it’s come to?  His own brother dies and people expect him to what? Just keep on living and working like nothing happened?
    He looked down at his watch, contemplating calling it day.  He had to pick up Charlie at 6 a.m. in order to get to the funeral home before everyone else, but wanted to wait for the song to end first.
                  The black kids in the car were all in their teens or early twenties. They seemed like good kids. Homies of all colours, it appeared, seemed more friendly and happy these days. The unprovoked cold stares and aggressiveness of the nineties and early millennium seemed to be tapering off. Rap, he thought, also seemed to be on a positive upswing. He was sure the two were connected.
                  And the wheel turns . He felt his stomach knot up again. That was something his brother had said to him once in one of his rare moments of baffling maturity.
                  It was in ‘05 or ‘06. He’d been visiting Christopher, as he often did back then.
                  “Have you heard from Aileen?” Chris asked casually from where he sipped his tea at the dining room table.
                  Aileen was a woman Jeremy had dated for a few months after his divorce. One day she had just severed contact without explanation. 
                  “Strange that you ask actually.”
                  “Oh yeah? Why?”
                  “I heard from her just last week. She called me out of the blue. Said she was sorry. That she made a mistake and never should have left me.”
                  “Did she say why she just disappeared?” Chris asked.
                  “Not really, no.”
                  “So what did you say?”
                  “I told her it was too late and that if she had just explained herself to me, perhaps we could’ve picked things back up again but she didn't even show me that respect so I had no time for her.” 
                  Chris put down his tea and smiled slyly at him from across the table.
                  “And the wheel turns,” he said.
                  The words struck Jeremy. So succinct. So true. Indeed, the wheel turns. After that whenever Jeremy