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A Letter From Brooklyn: Leather Jacket | #bigcolor

March 10, 2019


item 1. Daryl Lindarkis's father was David Lindarkis, and David's father was Daniel Lindarkis. Kyle had been jealous since he was a little kid of being left out of the D-name trend that encased everyone else in his family, including his mother, Derry. the pocketknife had been passed down for generations, and when Daryl became the lucky recipient Kyle had become a green-eyed little eleven-year-old. stole it and kept it under his pillow for two months until seeing how devastated Daryl was believing that he'd lost it. Daryl had spent fifty dollars on a brand-new friction folder with KL on it instead, but instead of giving it to Kyle, he kept it and gave his little brother the DL knife. 

item 2. Kyle had been thirteen when Daryl ran away. they'd both been rebellious kids, and becoming runaways was just an absolute dream. they were famous in their little Georgia town for disappearing into the woods for three days when Daryl was eleven and Kyle was only five, returning with a baby rabbit who they named Kyryl, all three of them battered and dirty and hungry but very much alive and happy. two years later after he left, the letter arrived in the mail, hidden among bills and brochures and useless pictures of baby relatives, an invitation to the City of Dreams.

item 3. The City That Never Sleeps. who cared if it wasn't Manhattan, New York was the Capital of the World. Kyle knew that map, included in the letter, by heart, with the hospital where Daryl worked as an RN, the college where he was in the process of getting his master's degree, and the apartment complex where he lived. two rooms. oven, bathroom, couch, bed, and that was about it. The Empire City.

item 4. 2014. that was the year Daryl ran away, the last time Kyle had seen him, and he never thought that he would hear from his brother again. he treasured that photo, kept it tacked on the wall, and because he didn't have thumbtacks, he buried his friction folder in the blue-painted sheetrock, right over the places where they'd pressed their palms into the wet paint and left handprints.

item 5. the Lindarkises were not a wealthy family by any means, and the two little boys had highlighted that with their fantasies of riches and moon mansions, butlers and celebrity friends, concerts and vacations around the world. Kyle was pretty sure his parents knew he'd disappear, but still they called that old, old phone and he didn't know why he'd brought it with him. maybe Kyle and Daryl would come back together someday, show all that they'd achieved, buy their parents a bigger house in a bigger town in a bigger state. the overall bigness of their dream was exhilarating.

item 6. Daryl had come up with the idea of the shared journal, one where they traded their deepest secrets (which each really already knew anyway), plotted their plot-est plots, devised intricate inventions and mapped out strange new worlds. Kyle's handwriting was a mess, and Daryl's was so neat, and here and there in the journal the two mixed as they both labeled a drawing or added on to a running story of them on another adventure.

item 7. they were going to make a killing, Kyle was sure of it. Daryl already had a job and a home and a college degree and soon Kyle would have all of that and a brother too. it wasn't hard to find someone to make the fake passport. with ID, and memories, and the only map he'd ever made that wasn't of Narnia or Panem or the Hogwarts grounds, he'd made his way into the subway car.

item 8. the car rocked gently on the tracks as the train moved slowly. his eyes were unfocused, dreamy, and when had they not been dreamy? he clutched the bag closer and felt the phone buzz and thought about how happy his parents would be when he and Daryl came home with all their dreams come true. he thought of newspaper headlines with his last name stamped across like a row of black stitches lacing up the front page. and then he smiled, and then the car rocked, less than gently this time, and the jacket he hadn't noticed was thrown off from the seat where it'd been abandoned and onto the floor. without thinking, he reached out to grab it, and instinctively looked around for the owner. but he was alone. with this musty old leather jacket that he could tell was too big for him but it smelled like city, which he supposed meant weed and car exhaust, a brand new smell to him, but an overwhelmingly homey one.

STOP. the train pulled into the station and the cloudy funk of memories passed. new place, gotta make space for Empire dreams, right? he pictured taking a cloudy, funky coat off and then tugged on his leather jacket straight from the streets of the Big Apple.
First part here: A Letter From Brooklyn


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  • March 10, 2019 - 9:16am (Now Viewing)

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