An old story - Buster Brogan trilogy

This is a trilogy called The Buster Brogan Trilogy. You need to read them all, but in any order. They are not independant stories, they work off each other. Might as well read them in the order they appear eh...

Part 1

Passer-by

Today, I passed an old man in the street, and this is what he said to me:

When I was four I had a dog. His name was Buster Brogan and he had buttons for eyes.

I took him to school with me on my first day and he was my only friend for seven years.

When I was eleven, my mother died. I took flowers to her grave every Sunday for two years, but I never took away the dead ones.

As I grew up, I never got used to talking to people. I was fourteen the first time I spoke to a girl. I remember that it was the same day I became aware of my every flaw.

When I was nineteen I went to see my brother at university. We drank the cheapest beer available as we sat on the roof of his flat and criticized the people on the Exeter street. But he was only pretending to hate them.

When I was twenty two part of the mine collapsed. I was trapped two hundred feet underground for two days without food, drink, sleep, or company. But I guess I'm used to that.

I spent my thirtieth birthday alone. My brother called, but I don't think he knew it was my birthday. He was phoning about Dad. His pick-up truck was found upside down, on fire, at the edge of a road, two minutes after three am. They couldn't identify the body, but it must have been him, because it was his truck.

Two days after my thirtieth birthday, my brother was found hanging in his basement. He left a note, which said he had no-one left. Now I have no-one left.

It's been like this for forty seven years, and about six months. I should be able to work out the exact amount of time from the date, but I don't know my own birth date anymore. I live off inherited money. There's not enough left to last until new-year. I'm only still here because I couldn't tie the noose. My hands were too shaky. My brother always was better than me.

As I brushed past him in this busy high-street, I caught a faint smell of alcohol. Two more paces and the smell had passed. I turned to look at him. I wanted to hear more of the story. But he was facing forward so I couldn't see it.

Part 2

Widow

The memorial hall was full of people. It had been open only four years since the extension and refurbishment, and never in that time had there been such a crowd.

Some people sat at tables at the side, some stood by the refreshments, others stood in the centre of the hall, but all were listening.

"Benjamin Brogan was full of life, even until his last day. His involvement with this city will not be forgotten, and his impact on this village has been carved into legend.

I speak not only as his wife, but on behalf of everyone, when I say he will be sorely missed."

The stage she stood on was large, and she looked isolated in the middle. She was dressed not in black, but in a colourful summer dress. She looked nervous, and held close to her chest a small, cuddly dog. He was old and tattered, and his eyes had fallen off and been replaced by buttons, one of which was coming un-sewn. His tail was hanging by a thread, and his fur torn off in parts. This dog was ready for the skip, but its sentimental value could not be measured.

"Benji was an entertainer. He loved to talk, and we loved to listen. We heard all the stories a million times and more, but never lost interest. The stories were fabrications, we all knew that, but there was never any reason to doubt his real integrity.

Benji was a man with a pure heart, and it was for this that he became so loved by so many.

I admit that he was hard to get to know, but he proved that first impressions mean nothing.

I know his mother would have liked to see him grow up, she would have been proud. I was only fourteen when I met her first; I think she was somewhat surprised to see Benji bringing a girl home. I wish I could have gotten to know her better before the accident.

But I always felt strongly attached to his father, who died just a few short years ago, and his brother, who has provided the refreshments this afternoon. The family certainly lacked neither love nor hospitality. And perhaps we should now show hospitality towards his brother, who is left without a family. If you would like to talk to him, I'm sure he'd be happy to be out of the kitchen.

I'd like to thank you all again for coming to show your respect for the late Benjamin Brogan. It means a lot to Buster and I, and you're all welcome to visit me any time, Buster and I will be glad of the company."

With that she gave a sort of half-smile and walked quietly from the stage. A small patter of hands briefly broke the silence, but not for long. The widow walked through the crowd, seeing only friendly faces, but knowing that the only face she truly wanted to see was the only face she could never see again.

Part 3

Himself

They say that when you die, your life flashes before your eyes. That may be true for some, but here's the real truth; your brain is in a mixed state of panic and understanding. In an unusually morbid way, it's euphoric. So the panic helps your brain move through several different thought-strands simultaneously, while the understanding helps them to make sense. You can literally think a million things at once, and it will all make sense. Everything in your life you've ever queried becomes clear, in your own individual way of understanding, be it the truth or misinterpretation. So for those people who question everything they do, their whole life flashes before their eyes in a brief moment of clarification. I am not one of those people. Let me tell you exactly what happened in my head as I took my final bow, my final breath.

I will set the scene to begin. I lay on my back on the same bed I have slept in for twenty-six years. It's a little hard and too warm tonight. My wife is lying next to me, she's fallen asleep. She's here because I'm dying, and she loves me, and she wants to be with me for my last moments in this life. She will be disappointed, but it's probably for the best.

I realise now that the first thought I had as I drew in my last breath was when I met her. She went to my primary school, she was in my first ever class. But I never spoke to her. At that age, the only person I spoke to was Buster. I barely even spoke to my parents, and never to my brother. It took all of seven years to build up to asking her name, which I already knew anyway. She didn't even answer. She looked at me and smiled, but only with her eyes. No-one else would have seen it, but I knew then that she understood me, and what she meant to me. It made me so happy, but it made me so sad. I knew immediately that I wasn't good enough for her. That explains how the self-esteem issue started. That's the one thing about me she never understood. I never understood it either, until now. Its strange how being loved can make you hate yourself so much. When I told my mum that I was interested in a girl, she told me I was a sinner. A boy my age shouldn't think about girls in that way. We went for years without talking. I still remember the day as the day I lost my mother.

This led my thoughts towards my family. When I was Nineteen I went to visit my brother at university. He was at Oxford, studying law. He always was better than me. We went out one night and got drunk on cheap beers, all of which he bought for me. As we walked back to his house I threw a bottle through the window of an orphanage. My brother took the blame for it, and he got kicked out of Uni. He never spoke to me after that. I still remember it as the day I lost my brother. And it all came out of a love he had for me, that's why he protected me. But it caused him so much trouble; he couldn't bear to talk to me, even though he loved me still. Maybe he will be at the funeral. It's strange how love can create such distance. I never told anyone, but that's why I donated the money to the charity. I've been hailed as a hero here for years because of that, and no-one ever really questioned why I put that money there.

When I was twenty-two I sabotaged the mine I was working in. I thought it would get me out of the place for good. The collapse killed two colleagues, and kept around twenty others trapped in dirt for two days. No-one ever knew it was me that caused the accident. I used the compensation money to lead the local campaign against mining. The society look to me as a leader, they don't know the real reason I had such a passion for it.

There is so much that these people don't know about me. I've been living here for well over twenty years. The last fifteen has been a foul concoction of lies and deceit. I take the best bits of stories, and make up other bits to glue them together. No-one here knows me, not even my wife. Any stranger in the street could probably draw as much truth from my appearance alone as these people who think they love me. And that's why they'll remember the name Benjamin Brogan, but they'll forget the man.

And that leads me to here, and to this realisation. All this took a matter of seconds. And the last thing on my mind for all eternity is this simple, monumental, insignificant thought.