So there it was…my Dad lay on his death bed at a hospital in Lincoln and my brother thought it was the appropriate time to ask him about his set of golf clubs that had once belonged to someone in the Ford family. What was he worried about? He had one sister who had never expressed the vaguest interest in any sport where whites are required. Then again, why was I surprised? He had always been something of a shit. Since we were 5.
Yes. It starts that early.
That’s why I did it really…what I’m about to tell you about.
It all started when we found out my dad had only a few weeks to live. I watched as my brother devolved into even more of a majestic shit than he already is. Sure, death brings out the worst in family but, per usual, my brother somehow managed to distinguish himself.
He stooped lower than even the lowest of estate-grubbing lowlifes. I honestly think if there had been a log in the fireplace the day my dad had been hospitalized, it would have had one of my brother’s blue post-it notes on it. But it was summer.
Anyway I just wanted to do something to shake my brother up. Upset him. Nothing long term just finally giving him that belting that I honestly believe would have done the kid some good. At that time I was waitressing, and I had an actor friend, Donnie, who worked at the same restaurant. He took his “craft” very seriously.
Once my dad stopped eating, I asked Donnie if he would play a role he hadn’t played before: The estate lawyer. He’d sit my brother and I down and tell us that our dad had left everything to an old buddy from the army. Then I’d watch as my brother self-combusted right there on the spot. It would be the perfect prank, and I planned to keep it up for as tortuously long as possible.
But Donnie was a method actor. He asked me every question under the sun about this “piece.” Why’d he become an estate lawyer to begin with? Did his dad pressure him to be one? What was his back story? Not to mention who was this army buddy? What was his back story? What was his name, for that matter?
I told him it didn’t matter. The point was to make my brother sweat for a week or so, and that’s it. He could just say - as the estate lawyer - that he wasn’t at liberty to say who the army buddy was.
With that you’d think I had killed Donnie’s firstborn. He spouted a diatribe that would intimidate Mussolini himself: Everyone on the planet knew you had the obligation to read the will, in full, to the listening party. If I was an estate lawyer I’d know that. I thought it was as good a time as any to remind Donnie that he was not an estate lawyer either. But at this point he refused to refer to his character, Mr. Green (yeah, that’s actually what he came up with) in any tense other than the first person.
So…I pulled something out of my ass: The army buddy was a guy named Daniel August Halpert. He was with my dad in the tenth regiment in Korea. He’d always loved to fly fish. And he has a German shepherd, Fitzgerald, who’s loyal but will do serious damage if you come near his corner of the house. He even bit my dad badly once, come to think of it.
Donnie deemed this sufficient.
So finally the day came, in the midst of my Dad’s final hours, when “Mr. Green” sat my brother and I down in our childhood home and told us that we wouldn’t be getting anything from our dying Dad. It all was going to Daniel August Halpert, and there was nothing the law could do about it. Donnie added a bit too much flair to the character, in my opinion: In fact at one point he even added a trope where Mr. Green had just lost his Father too and was trying to tearfully impart advice on us, but I kicked him so hard under the table he had to pivot and go back on script.
What I’d been waiting years for happened in the most beautiful of fashions: My brother threw a tantrum no different than the ones he’d throw at Dairy Queen when we were four, except this time there was no one to let him have all five flavors rather than having to pick just one. No, this time, it was just me there. And I watched, with delight as he got in Donnie’s face and screamed at him that he wouldn’t get away with this. Then I attempted solemnity as he looked back at me and told me he’d “take the fuck care of this,” before storming out of the house.
Donnie was ecstatic: I do believe it was the most exciting role he’d gotten since playing Mercutio in his school’s fifth grade rendition of Romeo and Juliet. In fact he even asked if he could use the character of Mr. Green for a one-man play he planned to write, explaining that intellectual property was a valuable thing in show business. I assured him a few times he could do whatever he wanted with it. No, I wouldn’t sue for the copyright.
As for me, even though my Dad died that very day, I slept pretty soundly that night. All felt right in the world and come a week or so later I planned to call my brother up and tell him about the prank. A week of suffering didn’t make up for a lifetime of being a shit, but it would have to do.
However, things changed the next morning when I got the strangest phone call: My brother was dead.
The police had found him in a cabin in the middle of nowhere near Niobrara River. A kitchen knife was stuck straight through his ribs and he’d bled out slowly for “longer than anyone really deserves to,” the cop said. I had to hold my tongue on that one.
When I asked the circumstances of his demise — was he with anyone? Whose cabin was it? — their answer sent an ice cold shiver up my spine:
The cabin belonged to a man named Daniel August Halpert, who was not found on the premises when the police arrived. They just found his German shepherd, and subsequently a few dog bites on my brother’s dead body.
Call me paranoid…but I was starting to get an uneasy feeling.
I didn’t say anything then to the cops, instead I raced to Donnie’s house and told him the whole thing. And wouldn’t you know? The guy just got more excited. Had I ever thought about becoming a writer? I’d managed to concoct a story so raw, so authentic, so genuine, that it ended up being one that actually existed. Not only that, it had launched its own plot and afterlife. Through tears and gesticulations he passionately explained this is what every writer strives for but rarely achieves.
I slapped him…literally. And told him to please shut the fuck up about it.
That’s when I made him come back to my apartment with me and brainstorm what to do. Before we could get very far though, there was a knock at the door. When I asked who it was, a gruff voice responded, “Daniel August Halpert.”
Donnie and I looked at one another with terror. But I had no choice other than to let the man in. And let me tell you: He was pretty terrifying to behold. He was dressed all in camouflage and may as well have been hunting big game. He had tattoos all over his body, and large combat boots that shook the floor every time he took a step.
He observed us and commented that I must be the daughter of Jim Murray. And that Donnie was clearly Mr. Green, Mr. Murray’s estate lawyer. Before either of us could pick our jaws up off the floor long enough to respond, Daniel Halpert explained that he’d come for what was rightfully his. He’d heard “through the grapevine” - which I concluded was my stupid, dead brother - that Jim had left everything to him, and he wanted the money. Now.
Before I could say anything Donnie made the moronic decision to remain in character. He corrected Daniel and said the man my dad left the money to was with him in the tenth regiment in Korea.
“Damn right.” Daniel Halpert responded, showing us a picture of my Dad and him from 1952 near the Imjin River.
Shit.
Donnie eyed me and continued, saying that, “No no no, this army buddy Jim Murray left his money to spends all his time fly-fishing.”
Daniel Halpert asked us why the hell did we think he lived all the way over by Niobrara River? He fly-fished every morning. His dog Fizzy went with him.
Donnie’s eyes lit up like Christmas: This Daniel Halpert’s dog was named Fitzgerald so…the whole thing was just a misunderstanding, and it was nice meeting him.
“What the hell do you think Fizzy is short for?” Daniel asked, spitting out his words like vinegar. “If your dad was here he’d tell ya: Fitzgerald bit him once.”
At that, Donnie sat down. Apparently this was now my scene.
Daniel Halpert approached me threateningly, waiting for Jim Murray’s estate in full. It was then I had no other choice but to tell him the whole story. There was no Mr. Green. And there was not supposed to have been any Daniel Halpert: I made him up.
He didn’t take to that kindly. He stared blankly at me and said that clearly, there was a Daniel Halpert. In fact if there was no Daniel Halpert, who the hell was he?
“We have an estate lawyer.” I explained, a little desperately. “In fact you can come with me and meet him yourself. This guy is just a waiter I work with.”
“A working actor.” Donnie corrected.
I began to wish it was Donnie who had the kitchen knife stuck in his ribs.
“I promise Mr. Halpert, there is no Mr. Green.” I continued, meaningfully.
All my life I’ve made a certain mistake: I’ve gone on the assumption that people are reasonable. That they operate under the same rules as I do. But a lot of people aren’t like that. A lot of people will seize any opportunity to turn rationality onto its head. They have no use for reason.
Daniel considered all of this and stared at Donnie for an uncomfortably long period of time. Then he looked back at me for another uncomfortably long period of time. Then he pointed at Donnie and explained, slowly, that no, that was Mr. Green, Jim Murray’s estate lawyer. In fact he sounded so sure about it I was almost convinced myself.
Daniel went on to tell us we had 24 hours to come up with the money, otherwise we’d end up like that little weasel that showed up to his cabin with the intent to kill him. And this time, he’d do it very, very slowly.
For some reason, Donnie felt it was appropriate to point out that my brother did - in fact - die slowly. Daniel smiled and assured him that there were far worse and slower ways to go. We’d soon find out if things went a certain way.
Why Donnie had to make that correction, I couldn’t tell you.
Then Daniel left. And as usual, I was left to clean up a mess my stupid brother had made.