For my youngest brother; may he rest in eternal peace.
March 14th, 1984 — November 24th, 2022
Sun Valley, Nevada — San Francisco, California
At the time of
Marlon’s birth, I was six years old and elated at the prospect of having
another brother. Our older brother, Troy, was fifteen. Both Troy and I held
Marlon in our arms when he was an infant, watched him play and sleep in his
crib, watched as he learned to talk and crawl and finally to walk. Marlon’s
father, Robert, would be our stepfather for five more years. Mom had been
married three times and had borne a son from each marriage. And though Troy,
Marlon, and I had different fathers, there grew between the three of us a deep
and profound brotherly love which transcended our familial situation.
Technically, we were “half-brothers,” but in our hearts we were never anything
but “brothers.” “You all came from the same place,” Mom was fond of saying,
meaning, of course, her womb. And after Marlon came along, Mom decided that
enough was enough; no more children for her, despite the fact that she’d never
gotten the daughter that she’d always hoped for.
So. Three brothers:
Troy Joseph Wilson, Jesse Lynn Rucilez, and Marlon Gerard Miramontes. Our
family lived in Sun Valley, in a doublewide trailer, on a half-acre of land at
the end of a dirt road cul-de-sac called Britton Lane. Ironic, because our
grandmother, who lived in a singlewide trailer behind us, hailed from
Peterborough, England, which lies on the island of Great Britain. We had a
large white horse named Swops, a Shetland pony named Shirley, and later, an
Australian shepherd named Ponnie Ola, which, according to Robert, meant
“beautiful cowgirl” in Hawaiian. Between ourselves, our pets, and our huge
yard, we were never at a loss for things to do or trouble to find.
As a child, Marlon
was outgoing and developed a great sense of humor early on. He loved to draw,
and was prone to outbursts of violence if provoked. In the hierarchy of sons,
Marlon was blessed in that he received the least amount of corporal punishment
from our hot-tempered mother, but in the hierarchy of brothers—being the youngest—he
was cursed. Poor Marlon received the older brother treatment from both Troy and
I—although, in my defense, I must say that I wasn’t near as cruel to Marlon as
Troy was to me. Nevertheless, Troy and I both felt Marlon’s wrath from time to
time.
Once, after
teasing Marlon mercilessly about something which I can’t remember, he leapt
upon me and scratched me behind my right ear hard enough to draw blood. Another
time, after similar teasing, Marlon crept up behind Troy and walloped him on
the back of his head with a toy dump truck—which, unfortunately for Troy, was
made of metal.
But there were so
many good times, too. We had a large couch in our living room with big,
sectional pieces, and on weekend nights we’d pile on the blankets and pillows
and stay up late watching movies on HBO. Those nights were mostly filled with
muffled laughter as we tried our damnedest not to wake up Mom. Sometimes, we’d
push the sectional pieces out from the couch and make ourselves a fort from
which to watch T.V. from. It’s only now, decades later, that I can appreciate
how lucky we were to have those times, and each other.
For better or
worse, as Marlon grew older, he looked to Troy and I as role models. He
followed us in liking horror films, collecting comic books and action figures,
listening to heavy metal music, watching pro-wrestling, and not giving a damn
about regular sports. Unfortunately, there came a point when Marlon would go
his own way, down a much darker road. Whereas Troy became enamored with lifting
weights and working on cars, I became enamored with playing drums and martial
arts. By his early teens, Marlon had stopped caring about any such things. His
personal demons had already risen from deep within his subconscious and taken
hold of his destiny. I knew something was wrong, but I had no idea what it was
or how bad it would eventually become.
As I understand
it, Marlon’s troubles began when he was four years old. That’s when Mom and Robert
separated. Their marriage had been strained from the beginning, and things had
escalated to the point where Mom told Robert to leave. Since Mom owned the land
and both trailers, Robert had no choice. I remember it well. Marlon was at Robert’s
parents’ house and Mom was staying with Granny. Troy had moved out, and I was
mostly alone for the weekend. All I heard each night was the thumping of boxes
as Robert hurriedly packed up. I was watching TV when Robert had finished. “I
love you, Jess,” he told me as he walked out the door. “Don’t ever let anyone
tell you any different.”
From there, Robert
got himself an apartment across town, and Mom began taking Marlon and I to
visit every week. For a while, it seemed as if Mom and Robert would reconcile,
but it wasn’t to be. After several months of separation, Mom and Robert
divorced. I don’t recall ever seeing Marlon in any serious distress during this
time, but years later Mom told me that he used to cry all the time, asking,
“When’s Daddy coming home?” I do know that Marlon’s grandfather passed away
from cancer a few years later, however, and that most definitely had a very
devastating effect on him.
For one year of
our childhood, Marlon and I both went to the same school: Virginia Palmer
Elementary. I had just entered the sixth grade and Marlon was starting
Kindergarten. Even though the Kindergarteners had their own playground, I still
got the chance to see Marlon every day and I was very protective of him. There’s
a rule amongst older brothers concerning their younger brethren: no one is
allowed to beat on them but us.
It was when Marlon
started third grade that I began to worry about him. I’d always had an easy
time in school when it came to my grades. I could pull As and Bs without trying
too hard. Marlon, however, was the complete opposite. He was a smart kid, but
schoolwork just didn’t interest him. Math, in particular, was a difficult
subject. One night, out of pure frustration, Mom asked me to help Marlon with
his homework. I was shocked to learn that he struggled with basic arithmetic,
and hadn’t even learned the times table. “What’s five times five?” I asked him.
Marlon thought it over. “Uh, fifteen?” he replied. So I taught him to count by
fives, and asked again. “Uh…twenty?” he answered. After an hour of this, I grew
very concerned. Marlon wasn’t dumb, but I felt very strongly that he might have
a learning disorder, and explained to Mom that he needed “special ed” classes.
Unfortunately, my
advice wasn’t heeded. I watched as year after year Marlon passed into the next
grade with no improvement in his basic education. During this time, I appealed
to Mom more and more, begging her to get Marlon some help. “Don’t worry about
it,” she told me repeatedly, “I’m taking care of it.”
There was nothing
I could do.
By the time Marlon
turned thirteen, he was beginning to hang out with a bad crowd. That’s when he began
smoking pot. At first, he tried to hide this, but then came clean to Mom. I
didn’t find out until one day I noticed a pipe in his room. I was incensed, and
to my utter dismay, I discovered that Mom not only knew, but didn’t seem to
care. I should here add that Mom was also dealing with personal demons which
would ultimately ruin her life, but nevertheless, this revelation caused a
great deal of strife between us. I felt that smoking pot at such a young age
would be the worst thing in the world for Marlon. If he already had a learning
disorder, then destroying brain cells certainly wasn’t going to help him focus
any. Not to mention the fact that, at the time in Nevada, it was my
understanding that possessing marijuana was a felony. I didn’t want my brother
to get into trouble, and I didn’t want him to become like the giggling,
unmotivated “potheads” I’d known in high school.
It didn’t end
there. By age fifteen, Marlon was coming home at all hours of the night drunk
off his teenaged ass. One day, I found him, fully clothed, passed out on the living
room couch. This led to more screaming fights with Mom, and more of her telling
me to mind my own business. I also yelled at Marlon a lot, which didn’t help
our relationship very much. By this time, Troy was married and having his own
difficulties, so all I could do was watch in horror.
Well, to make a
long story short, all of my fears were eventually realized. Marlon began
getting into trouble for petty things like shoplifting, spray painting on
walls, and loitering in places that he didn’t belong with his hoodlum friends.
By age eighteen, he’d been court-ordered into three different juvenile drug
rehab programs and had graduated them all with very little progress made.
Marlon, I’m sorry to say, had become “institutionalized” to the point where he knew
exactly what the therapists and counselors wanted to hear. That, along with his
natural charm, facilitated his movement through “the system.”
When I turned
twenty-one, I hadn’t spoken to Marlon’s dad in several years. Robert worked as
a bartender in downtown Reno at the now defunct Comstock Hotel-Casino, and I
was working as a bellman at the now defunct Fitzgerald’s Hotel-Casino just a
few blocks away. One day, I casually strolled into Robert’s bar with a big
smile on my face. “Hey, Robbie,” I called. His face instantly lit up. “All
right, Jess!” he replied, racing out from behind the bar to embrace me.
During our bar
visit, Robert invited me to have lunch with him and I accepted. He and Marlon
also hadn’t spoken in a few years, and we discussed him quite a bit. Robert was
baffled by Marlon’s stubborn behavior, and I tried to lend what insight I
could. In all, we met up three times before I moved.
In 2001, at age
twenty-three, I’d had quite enough of Reno and wanted to distance myself from
my family. So I decided to move to Seattle, Washington. I lived there for ten
years, and during that time I had little to no contact with Marlon. Marlon
later told me that he’d also lived in Seattle for several months, squatting in
abandoned houses with a group of homeless “graffiti artists.” He said that he’d
called me but had always gotten my voicemail and never bothered to leave a
message. This didn’t surprise me. I often left my cellphone off during that
time. To this day, I still wish that he’d left a message letting me know he was
there. I would’ve loved to have seen him.
Around 2009, I
began to feel homesick and began taking trips back to Reno whenever I could. By
this time, Marlon had seemingly cleaned up. He was living back home with his girlfriend,
Shayna, whom I didn’t particularly care for, but the relationship apparently
helped to keep him grounded. He was taking methadone to circumvent heroin
addiction, and had developed high blood pressure. This was also when I learned
that Marlon had been diagnosed as schizophrenic. I was shocked, but it made
sense. Marlon didn’t have “multiple personalities,” which is what people
usually associate with schizophrenia, but he suffered from audial and visual
hallucinations. That’s mainly what had caused him to self-medicate.
In 2011, I finally
decided to move back to Reno. One of my main priorities was to reconnect with
my family and spend more time with my brothers; Marlon, in particular. This was
a great time for me. Marlon was the healthiest and happiest I’d seen him since
early childhood, and he and Troy had grown thick as thieves. Troy had also
moved back home, so I saw them together almost every time I visited.
Artistic talent
runs heavily in my family, and both Troy and Marlon got it in spades. Me, not
so much. Mom worked as a cocktail waitress for most of her adult life, and when
bored she’d doodle very realistic looking flowers and horses on the paper
coasters she’d used for serving drinks. She often brought these doodles home to
show us kids, and we appreciated them. Troy had begun drawing early in his
life, too. His talent was that he could look at any drawing and reproduce it,
line for line, exactly, but bigger. It was astounding. Troy could also draw
original work, and specialized in realism. Marlon, however, could not only
draw, but he could paint, sculpt, you name it. He could create compelling art
in any medium. His work was darker than Troy’s, more cartoonish, abstract, and
at times, disturbing. I loved it.
In those early
days of my return from Seattle, Troy and Marlon were both devoted to their art,
sometimes even working together, side by side. It warmed my heart to see them
bonding so deeply in creativity. As for me, I’ve messed about with some drawing
in my life, even tried my hand at some mixed media paintings, but I’m nowhere
near as talented as my brothers. My talents are for music and for the written word.
I just wish that the three of us could’ve somehow combined our talents and
built our lives upon them.
Once I’d gotten
myself an apartment, I began inviting Troy and Marlon over for dinner and
movies, and we had some great times. But I also made an effort to hang out with
Marlon, just the two of us, often. Although Marlon was doing better in life, I
could tell that he was in a precarious position, and my goal was to encourage
him to stay clean. “I wish I were like you, Bro,” he’d often say to me. “You
work. You have your own place. You have your own money. You can do whatever you
want.” I understood how Marlon felt. He’d never had a job in his life. He’d
never learned how to drive a car. He was on disability. Mom took care of his
finances and made sure he got his prescriptions. To get to his doctor
appointments, he had to either ask for rides or take the bus. Because of the
life he lived, Marlon hadn’t built up any self-esteem. So I tried my hardest to
help him.
Perhaps I was
delusional, but I saw Marlon’s art as his salvation. He’d already earned a
great reputation as an artist, and with his outgoing personality he had
connections everywhere. Not all of them good, mind you, but they were there.
Through an outreach program, Marlon had managed to teach art classes for a
semester at a local middle school, and the former Ultimate Fighting Champion,
Ken Shamrock, had once requested artwork from him for his Lion’s Den martial
arts school. The door was open, and I encouraged Marlon time and again to start
selling his art and making some money. He’d sold art in the past, but of course
the money had been spent on drugs and who knows what else. This time, I urged
him to think about his art as a business, as a career. I even offered to
promote Marlon’s artwork online for him. And while he was responsive to all of
this, I don’t think that Marlon believed in himself enough to actually go
through with it.
One day, while
pressing Marlon about his art, I was dismayed to learn that most of his
paintings and drawings had either been sold or destroyed. All he had were a few
drawings in a large pad which he wasn’t especially proud of. I took pictures
and posted them to a website called DeviantArt, creating the beginnings of an
online portfolio. Marlon was grateful, but not nearly as enthusiastic as I was.
One of the
proudest accomplishments of my life was when Marlon and I collaborated on a
project. I’d bought a book called Mind Fields, which featured paintings
from an artist named Jacek Yerka and short fiction from my favorite author,
Harlan Ellison. Ellison had written a short story to accompany each of Yerka’s
paintings, and I wanted to do the same with Marlon’s artwork. I pitched the
idea, and he readily agreed. “Paint whatever you want,” I told him. “Title it,
but don’t tell me the name or anything else about it. I don’t even want to see
it until you’re finished. When I’m ready, I’ll look it over and start writing.”
Marlon requested that I buy him some canvas, paint, and new brushes, and I happily
whisked him away to the nearest art supply store.
Eight months
later, Marlon gave me two canvasses wrapped in towels, and a manilla folder
with three pages of sketches and handwritten notes. I waited until a certain
day when I had no distractions and unveiled what Marlon had created. In short,
his painting, titled: Precious Time, took my breath away. It’s such an
intricately detailed piece of work, beyond what even I thought Marlon capable
of. The theme is of a man slowly dying. The left canvas features a cartoonish
Grim Reaper, with spider webs and drops of blood in the background. The right
canvas features the dying man, fist raised, his face almost featureless, fading
into the drab green background. And in the center, connecting the two canvasses,
a floating pocket watch, trailing a gold chain; Marlon’s symbolic
representation of time itself. The notes told me that Marlon was inspired to
create this masterpiece from the pain of watching his grandfather slowly
succumb to cancer. I wasted no time in writing what I consider to be my best
short fiction. Bearing the same title as the painting, my story is about a man
who finds himself standing on the shore of the River Styx, holding a pocket
watch which also happens to be a family heirloom, and facing The Grim Reaper
itself. Marlon read it and expressed admiration in return.
Precious Time, the story, was eventually published online by my
friend, John Robbins, at The Abyss e-zine of Horror. At my request, John added
a picture of Marlon’s painting, crediting him below. I’d sincerely hoped to
collaborate with Marlon several more times, perhaps eventually publishing a
book similar to Mind Fields, but fate just wasn’t on my side.
One thing I always
appreciated about Marlon was that he was never afraid to tell me the truth. As
such, our private conversations went to some very dark places. In an effort to
help him conquer his demons, I had to know exactly what he was dealing with,
and why. I asked him about the hallucinations, and he described them in hideous
detail. According to Marlon, without his medication, he was prone to hearing
the voices of serial killers inside his head. The voices were of Ted Bundy,
Richard Ramirez, Gary Heidnik, and others. They’d tell Marlon awful things
about himself, about other people, and about the world in general. They’d also
urge him to do awful things, mostly to himself. As far as the visual part went,
Marlon explained that without his medication he’d often see demonic images
lurking all around; sometimes even Satan himself. Later, when Marlon had
relapsed, I recall talking to him in his bedroom. On this occasion, he described
seeing slimy tendrils reaching up through his bed to grab him, and it was only
because I couldn’t see them that he understood that they weren’t real.
Now, I’m no
psychiatrist, but it’s clear to me that Marlon was severely traumatized
sometime early in his life, and that his hallucinations were a manifestation of
some deep-seated self-loathing which I can only guess came from blaming himself
for Mom and Robert’s divorce, and also from perceived rejection from his father.
The more trouble he got into, the worse his self-image became, and once he
began turning to drugs as a way to self-medicate, his pathology became not only
a vicious circle, but also a downward spiral of torment.
“How old were you
when you first started hearing these voices?” I once asked. Marlon thought it
over for a few minutes, then replied, “When I was about four.” My jaw dropped.
Suddenly, it all began to make sense.
Another dark road
that Marlon took me down was when he explained that, in my absence, he’d
fathered a son. I never met the mother, but they’d both agreed that neither of
them were prepared for the rigors of parenting, and had put the baby up for
adoption. All Marlon knew was that his son had been adopted by a Mormon family
who lived in Carson City. I’m sure it pained him to know that he had a child
who’d never know him. And while it saddens me to know that I have a nephew
whose name I’ll never know and whom I’ll never meet, I take solace in knowing
that, barring the most extreme circumstances, he’s better off in the long run.
After taking so
many trips down those dark conversational roads, I still believe that the main
source of my brother’s pain was his strained and, at the time, nonexistent,
relationship with his father. Growing up, Marlon had always felt that Robert
was disappointed in him. Marlon was never the typical “All-American Kid” who
collected baseball cards, played in Little League, and wanted to go fishing on
weekends. Marlon was sensitive, bohemian, and antiauthoritarian from the start,
much like his older brothers. I can’t speak for Robert concerning how he felt
about Marlon, but I do know that he’d always been apprehensive of Marlon’s art.
During one of our aforementioned lunches, I’d broached the subject of Marlon’s style,
saying how unique it was compared to other art. Robert grimaced and replied,
“You mean the skulls and shit?” Marlon himself told me several times that
Robert had often asked why he never drew or painted nice scenery or flowers. I
can only surmise that Robert just didn’t understand how his son could be so
different than himself, and didn’t know how to handle it.
I don’t remember
the whole story, but Marlon told me that when he was eighteen, he’d had a major
falling out with Robert. They’d gotten into a shouting match, which had
escalated into a shoving match, and both had gone their separate ways,
harboring bitterness. It was Marlon’s understanding that his father wanted
nothing to do with him, and the feeling was apparently mutual. But beneath
Marlon’s vitriol, I could see a wounded little boy who missed his father, who
needed the validation that only a father could provide. On that score, I
figured that there was nothing I could say or do about any of that.
Fortunately, I was
wrong.
When I first moved
back to Reno, I asked both Mom and Marlon if they knew anything about Robert.
The Comstock had shut down, and I was curious as to where he worked. Mom seemed
to think that he’d gotten a bartending job at The Peppermill Resort, which lies
south of downtown. But the Peppermill’s a big place. I didn’t want to go there
and start asking around for Robert like some weirdo stalker.
As luck would have
it, a few years later, Troy would become a cab driver. One day, whilst
languishing at a taxi stand near The Peppermill, Troy happened to see Robert
walking down the street. They struck up a conversation, and Robert asked about
me. Troy gave him my number, and I was happy to be back in contact with our
former stepdad.
Robert was anxious
to reconnect over lunch, and we met at a quaint little restaurant called The
Stonehouse. Robert welcomed me as if I were his own son, and we passed close to
two hours catching up. Of course, we talked at length about Marlon. “Be honest
with me, Jess,” Robert asked nervously. “Do you think Marlon would speak to me?
Has he ever said, you know, ‘I hate my dad,’ or anything like that?” I was only
too happy to answer as honestly as I could. I told Robert how Marlon felt in
the very words he’d used, adding that I knew Marlon wanted to reestablish their
relationship. By this time, however, things were already headed downhill.
Robert had become a grandfather, and Marlon’s demons had resurfaced.
But then, I’m
getting ahead of myself.
Sometimes, reality
is a bitch. Sometimes, the truth is so hard, so unyielding. And yet, true
honesty can’t be achieved without it. So, as much as it pains me to write this
next part, I have to…because if I don’t, I’d be lying…and because it’s the
cold, hard truth as I saw it then, and as I still see it now.
The day I knew
that Marlon’s life and livelihood were in serious jeopardy was the day I found
out that Shayna was pregnant and planning to keep the baby. Marlon told me that
Shayna had originally contacted her grandmother, who lived in Oregon, and was
arranging to get the money for an abortion. Subsequently, she’d planned to
leave Marlon and move to Oregon to live with her grandmother. But—again,
according to Marlon—Mom had tearfully convinced Shayna to have the baby. Marlon
explained all of this to me with an air of almost indifference, as if he were
just a spectator in his own life. For my part, I just felt sorry for him, and
did my best to live with the bad feeling in my gut.
Here’s the reason
for my upset stomach. Marlon wasn’t emotionally capable of being a father, and
he wasn’t mentally capable of handling the stress of caring for an infant. Even
though Marlon and Shayna had been together for a few years, their relationship
had been a rocky one. Marlon was thirty years old, living at home, taking
methadone, psych medication, high blood pressure medication, and living on
disability checks. Again, I have to be honest. Sometimes, Marlon would neglect
himself to the point where I had to insist that he go clean up. He wouldn’t
bathe or even brush his teeth for days at a time. His breath and body odor
could be horrendous. And Shayna was only in her early twenties, obese, and
lazy. According to what I was told by other family members, she’d held two
different jobs in the time she’d been with Marlon, and had been fired from both.
She seemed content to laze around Mom’s house all day, with no intention of
working. She also didn’t have a car. Not to mention that Mom and Troy were both
dealing with their own personal demons.
All around, it was
just a terrible situation to bring a child into.
Call me cynical or
whatever you will, but this is what I foresaw happening. Shayna, after giving
birth, would be enraptured with her newfound identity as a “mom.” Little by
little, she’d realize that the baby was more important than Marlon, and would
begin treating him as less than, not as an equal coparent. Marlon, meanwhile,
would bond with the baby, which would cause him all sorts of mixed emotions. Coupled
with the constant pressure of having a newborn, I figured they’d fight a lot
more, which would lead to an inevitable breakup. Then, when Shayna took the
baby away, Marlon would fall back into the abyss. And it’s not like I was
making this all up in my head. I’d seen Troy go through it with his ex-wife
years before. I’d seen some of my friends go through it. I’d listened intently over
the years as many coworkers told me things that no “relationship expert” would
ever put in a self-help book.
In short, I was
frightened to death of what was to come. Again, I tried to intervene in the
most positive way I could think of. I could tell that Marlon had ambivalent
feelings about impending fatherhood, and I tried to warn him of what was about
to happen. “Shay’s gonna change after the baby comes,” I told him. “So be
prepared.” I didn’t tell Marlon that I figured she’d eventually leave and take
the baby away, but I warned of the strain that having a newborn would put on
them. I told him that the baby would become Shayna’s main focus. Marlon
listened with an air of resignation, and thanked me for being honest.
Thus, it came to
pass, that one day in early June of 2013, Shayna gave birth to a daughter:
Sophia Marlain Reynolds. After finding out that she’d receive more benefits as
a “single mother,” Shayna and Mom had talked Marlon into not signing the birth
certificate at the hospital. Shayna also lied on her paperwork, saying that she
didn’t know who the father was. All of which meant that Marlon would have no
parental rights in the future without establishing parenthood through a blood
test.
A wonderful start,
eh?
The day Sophia was
born, I drove down to the hospital and shared a cigar with Marlon in the
morning sun. He seemed happy, but nowhere near euphoric. I recall that Shayna
was crabby because she didn’t have her special, heart-shaped pillow from home.
Luckily, while Shayna was resting, I was able to steal Marlon away for an hour
and buy him some breakfast.
Now, should my
niece, Sophia, ever read these words, I’m absolutely not implying that her
birth caused Marlon’s downfall in any way. Odds are, he still would’ve gone
down the same path that he eventually went down. Nor am I denying that Marlon
played the biggest part in his own demise. Despite his mental illness, Marlon
was still competent enough to know right from wrong. He also wasn’t a saint in
his relationship with Shayna. As much as I loved my brother, it was hard to
understand why a woman would put up with him, given his overall condition.
But I’d be lying
if I didn’t admit to thinking that all of this hastened Marlon to his doom.
The first snag was
that there was some complication with Sophia, causing her to spend a few weeks
in the NICU. After Shayna was released, she and Marlon would either get a ride
or take the bus down to the hospital daily to see their poor little daughter.
It just so happened that I was employed at the very same hospital as a Public
Safety Officer, and saw Marlon frequently during this time. The nurses—and
rightfully so, I might add—had grown very concerned from observing Marlon and
Shayna, and had chastised them for not spending enough time at the hospital
with Sophia. They’d also threatened to get Child Protective Services involved
since neither of them seemed capable of parenthood. Marlon and Shayna were both
angry.
On one occasion, I
escorted Marlon into the NICU to see Sophia along with him. Shayna was there.
She began explaining that the nurses were hassling her. I listened with a
strained look of sympathy. “This is stupid,” she declared. “I’m a great mom!” I
looked upon that young woman with utter loathing. All I could think was, Bitch,
your child hasn’t even left the hospital yet! You don’t get to call yourself a “great
mom” at least until the day Sophia actually graduates from high school!
Eventually, Sophia
pulled through and was sent home with Marlon and Shayna, and CPS didn’t get
involved. At first, things seemed to go pretty smoothly. Marlon threw himself
into fatherhood as best as he could, and both he and Shayna were taking
parenting classes. Marlon bonded with Sophia, and it brought out a tenderness
in him that I’d never seen before. I was cautiously optimistic, but in the back
of my mind I was still expecting the worst. Of course, about two months after
Sophia was born, Marlon confided that my prediction about Shayna’s behavior was
coming true. I lamented that now we had even less time to spend together.
Between Shayna’s neediness and the damned methadone—which caused Marlon to
sleep for large chunks of time during the day—it had always been difficult to
get him out of the house. But now, it was almost impossible.
Oddly enough, it
was the parenting classes which really brought things to a head. Shayna had
confided to another young woman in her class that she’d been dealing with
post-partem depression, and that, some days, she “felt like putting Sophia in
the oven.” An offhand remark, I’m sure, and—giving the benefit of the doubt—not
one she’d truly meant. After all, who hasn’t mused, either privately or aloud, about
horrible things we’ve felt compelled to do, with no intention of actually doing
it? So I don’t hold that against Shayna, especially because she fully admitted
what she’d said. What she hadn’t expected, though, was her so-called “friend”
to go blabbing about it to the counselors.
Sure enough, CPS
was called to action.
I’ve alluded to
Mom and Troy having their own issues to deal with at this time. But this essay
is about Marlon, not them. So here I’ll just say that, owing to those issues,
the house in which I’d grown up in wasn’t exactly the best place for a child to
be anymore. Besides artistic ability, there was also a hoarding trait to be
shared. As such, the house had slowly become filled with boxes, furniture, and
old appliances, to the point where it was difficult to walk from room to room.
CPS wasn’t impressed with the situation, and advised Marlon and Shayna that
they had two choices: either clear the place out, or find somewhere else to
live before Sophia learned to walk.
Since Marlon and
Shayna had no control over the clutter, and since the hoarding pathology causes
the hoarder to refuse to throw things away, they had no choice but to find
other housing. Fortunately for Shayna, she learned that, as a “single mother,”
she qualified for subsidized housing. Furthermore, there was such a complex
conveniently located just outside of Sun Valley, next to the infamous Hug High
School (referred to as “Thug High” by us locals). Marlon wasn’t allowed to live
there, of course, but that didn’t stop him from secretly moving in, anyway.
By this time,
things had already taken that dark turn which I’d been expecting. Marlon
confided in me that he and Shayna had been fighting a lot, and he seemed
miserable. Then, of course, the management at the subsidy housing complex found
out that Marlon had been living there and almost evicted Shayna. Marlon had no
choice but to move back home, and without Shayna and Sophie, he felt totally lost.
So he turned to alcohol for comfort. In due course, old friends came
knocking…and Marlon fell completely off the wagon.
Somewhere around
this time, Marlon simply gave up. He stopped taking his psych medication and
started smoking crystal meth. He began losing weight and acting psychotic. His
face broke out in scabs, and he developed the nervous twitches that people
who’re high on meth always seem to have. He was on a fast track to oblivion.
It was inevitable
that, owing to Marlon’s erratic and at times violent behavior, Shayna filed a
restraining order and forbade him to see Sophia. I certainly don’t blame her
for that. Marlon could be downright scary when under the spell of meth and
hearing those demonic voices whispering in his ears.
The only ray of
hope came when, after my reunion with Robert, the man decided to bury the
hatchet with Marlon and went to see him at the county jail, where Marlon was
currently incarcerated for Disturbing The Peace. At first, things were strained
between them, but little by little—despite Marlon’s escalating behavior—they
began to develop a relationship again.
Several months in
the county lockup served its purpose of drying Marlon out, and when he returned
home, he told all of us that he was going to try to get his life together. He
even began spending time with Robert, which I could tell brought some of the
light back to his eyes. Shayna was still refusing to let him contact her or the
baby, but Mom was acting as their intermediary, and kept Shayna informed of Marlon’s
progress. Again, I place no blame on Shayna for wanting to be sure that Marlon
was absolutely clean before allowing him access to her life.
Well, no need to
belabor this part of Marlon’s story. Obviously, he wasn’t able to get himself
squared away. What followed was several more years of getting into trouble with
the law, spending a few months in County, then getting released and going back
to Mom’s house. Since the time I’d moved to Seattle, Mom’s mental and physical
health had been in decline, and by now she was totally incapable of dealing
with Marlon. Still, I tried to spend time with him, but could only stand to be
around him when he was sober, which was seldom. At the time, Reno had a total
of three major medical centers and two mental health hospitals, and Marlon had
repeatedly spent time in all of them. The absolute worst part of all of this
was watching Troy and Marlon’s relationship disintegrate. They had several
encounters where things had almost gotten physical, and each vented to me about
how irritated and sick they were of each other.
As the middle
child, the middle brother, I felt my heart being torn in two. Without each
other, what did any of us really have?
Another tragedy
during this time was that Marlon began selling off his possessions to pay for
drugs. Over the years, he’d amassed an impressive collection of comics and
action figures which held real value. Especially the action figures. These were
deluxe figures from sources like Marvel Select, and the Spawn Series by Todd
McFarlane. He had hundreds of figures which were worth well into the thousands.
One day, Troy led me into Marlon’s room—my old bedroom—and the walls were bare.
He’d sold almost all of them, along with his comics. It was heartbreaking. He’d
loved his collection. It was one of the only things he ever took pride in, and
I knew that one day, in a moment of sobriety, he’d realize what he’d done.
Could my little
brother ever truly recover from something like that?
Although Marlon
could be violent and threatening when high on meth, the only person he ever
really hurt was himself. I listened on several occasions as both Mom and Troy
described Marlon hitting himself with various objects, and how various wounds
would appear on his body overnight. On one occasion, I stopped by Mom’s house to
find that Marlon had untreated burn marks all over his forearms. He told me
that a girl he’d been seeing had done it to him in his sleep, but I’m convinced
that he’d resorted to self-harm in an attempt to make the voices stop. So I
took my little brother into the bathroom and proceeded to clean him up and
apply bandages, cursing this rotten world all the while.
On another
occasion, Troy called and asked for help getting Marlon into one of the mental
health hospitals. He’d been picked up by the police, taken to a medical center,
and was yet again being released back onto the street. Of course, I agreed to
help my older brother for our younger brother’s sake. When Marlon saw both of
us arrive to pick him up, he was instantly suspicious. He was still tweaking
from the meth, and the nurse was concerned that his blood pressure was spiking.
I explained that he usually took medication for this, but the nurse only took
his BP a few more times before advising him to “go home and take your
medication right away.” In his state, I couldn’t believe they were releasing
him, but they were.
As Marlon was
being discharged, he tried to play it cool. But there was no disguising the
manic gleam in his eye, or the twitches in his arms and legs. He’d also stare
off into space from time to time and mutter, “Satan!” at odd intervals. When we
got to the parking lot, I asked if we could take him to the mental health
clinic, and he of course balked. I kept insisting as gently as I could, and
Marlon finally lost his temper. “You gotta let me be a man!” he said,
exasperating me to no end. For his part, Troy just shook his head and walked
away. He’d already dealt with too much of this. “Marlon!” I called as he
stalked away from me. “We’re your brothers and we love you! Now get in the car
and let us help you!”
It was no
use.
As time went on, I
saw only two viable outcomes for my little brother: death or prison.
Personally, I was hoping for prison. At least there he’d be off the streets. I
found myself wishing more and more that state run asylums still existed, and
that we could have Marlon committed for his own good. As horrible as it sounds,
having my brother in prison or an asylum seemed better than the hell he was
putting himself—and the rest of us—through.
Another part of
the vicious circle which had become Marlon’s life was that Mom would
intermittently kick him out of the house, leaving him homeless. Given the
circumstances, I don’t blame her. Marlon had grown quite adept at living on the
streets, and at times seemed to prefer it over having to put up with any sort
of rules.
Another night I’ll
never forget was the night that Mom called me up in tears, saying that Marlon
had overdosed and was in a coma. The police had found him in a hotel room, taken
him to the hospital, then called both her and Robert. I was distraught, but I’d
also been expecting just such a call for quite some time. Mom had spent two
hours in the ICU with him, praying over him, and had finally gone home. I no
longer worked at the hospital and couldn’t remember the visiting times, so I
decided to head down in the morning. On my way home from work, I contacted
Robert, who explained that he didn’t think he could handle seeing Marlon in
such a state, and wasn’t planning on going to see him.
When I arrived at
the ICU, a nurse led me to Marlon’s room. As I approached the bed, I noticed
that something was wrong. The young man’s hands were tattooed with skeleton
bones, as if he were wearing a Halloween glove. Marlon had no such tattoos. The
problem was that this person was intubated, and the tube going into his mouth
partially obscured his facial features. “I don’t think this is my brother,” I
said, and asked the nurse if we could look under this person’s gown. Marlon had
his share of very identifiable tattoos, and chief among them was a large
picture of the actor, Charles Bronson, from the film, Death Wish. It was
the iconic shot of Bronson holding a large revolver, and it covered Marlon’s
entire right flank. I explained this to the nurse and she lifted the gown. This
poor young man had no tattoos on his flank whatsoever. Somehow, the cops had identified
him as Marlon, and he’d been checked in under his name. I then spent close to
an hour explaining how I was related to Marlon, how I knew that it wasn’t him,
and how it was possible that our mother could sit in the same room with a total
stranger for two hours and never even notice that it wasn’t her son. It was one
of the most frustrating, embarrassing, and maddening episodes of my entire
life.
Finally, Troy’s
daughter, Jacqui, arrived. After I explained what was going on, my brilliant
niece whipped out her phone, looked Marlon up on the Washoe County inmate registry,
and found that he was still safe and sound on Parr Boulevard. The nurses all
panicked, and I wound up having to explain everything all over again to my old Public
Safety supervisor, who was equally in shock.
Next, I called
Mom, who thought I was in denial when I said, “That’s not Marlon.” It took
several minutes to convince her of her grievous error, and once she’d accepted
the truth, Mom dropped a bombshell on me. “It’s a good thing you went down
there, honey,” she’d said in an anxious tone. “The nurses said that even if he
comes out of the coma, he won’t have much brain function left. They were
telling me to consider pulling the plug!”
Robert was also
greatly confused by the situation, and I wasn’t able to answer most of his
questions. I was just glad that Marlon was still in jail, although I knew that
it was likely just a matter of time before it really was my little brother
lying in a coma.
To this day, I
wonder who that young man really was, and if his family ever found out.
The next chapter
in Marlon’s life contained another faint glimmer of hope. After a long stint in
jail, Robert decided that the best thing for Marlon would be to come and live
with him. Mom, Troy, and I were all grateful for Robert’s generosity, and I
hoped that reuniting with his father would be just what Marlon needed to get
back on track. And it was…for a while.
There was a great
day when Troy and I arrived at Robert’s house to see how well Marlon was coming
along. Robert had long since remarried, and lived in a rather nice house in a
much nicer part of Reno than Sun Valley. He was happy to see us, and welcomed
us with open arms. Marlon was also beaming with joy and love. He’d put on
weight, which showed that he was healthy and back on his meds. Robert had been
taking Marlon to all of his doctor appointments, substance abuse counseling, to
church, and had even gotten him a part-time job in a nearby thrift store. I
couldn’t help but take pride in the fact that my reunion with Robert had helped
persuade him to rebuild their relationship.
That afternoon,
Troy, Marlon and I went to lunch at IHOP. Troy and Marlon did most of the
talking. I was just happy to see my brothers getting along again. As I listened
to Marlon, I grew a bit concerned. He was talking a lot about church, and about
how he wanted to stay away from “demonic things.” This included things he’d
previously enjoyed, like his comics and his action figure collection. He also
said that he wasn’t interested in creating art anymore. It was just odd; a
whole different version of Marlon. But I told myself that I could live with it
if he managed to stay clean.
Again, fate just
wasn’t on my side. There was another falling out between Robert and Marlon,
which meant that Marlon had nowhere else to go but back home where all of his
demons awaited. I’m not sure of exactly what happened between them, but I know
that they’d both been drinking.
From here, Marlon
fell back into the same cycle as before. I kept hoping that he’d eventually get
himself in big trouble and wind up in state prison for at least a year. But
every time Marlon was arrested, the charges were either dismissed or reduced,
and the harshest sentence he ever got was several months in the county jail.
There were only two more significant events in Marlon’s life that I’m aware of
before he skipped town for good.
The first incident
happened in June of 2021. I’d long been concerned that one day Marlon would
attempt suicide and, according to Mom, he did. She called to tell me that
Marlon had woken her up the night before, claiming to have swallowed two
bottles of over the counter sleeping pills. She said that Marlon had passed
out, and when the medics arrived, they struggled to resuscitate him. Mom tends
to be melodramatic, however, and wasn’t able to answer any of my questions,
including what hospital he’d been transported to. I was and still am skeptical,
but with Marlon’s history of self-harm, it’s very possible that he did try to
kill himself. At any rate, he was supposedly released two days later.
The second
incident happened several weeks later. One morning, I received a series of texts
from Troy. Marlon had flipped out and tried to set Mom’s house on fire. This
time, I had no reason to be skeptical. The proof was in the pictures Troy sent.
The police and a firetruck had responded to Troy’s 911 call, and when Marlon
appeared, acting innocent, he was immediately arrested.
Here we go again, I thought.
After Robert and Marlon
parted ways, Robert and I made a deal. If either of us heard anything about
Marlon, we’d be sure to let each other know. This was mainly due to Robert not
wanting to have any contact whatsoever with Mom, and I didn’t blame him. So it
was my duty to inform him of what Marlon had done. Robert was sad, but thanked
me for telling him.
Marlon had quite
literally played with fire, and was now charged with 2nd Degree
Arson, which is a Class B felony in Nevada, punishable by up to ten years in
prison. Surely, he’d go to state prison this time. I figured that, once he got
clean again, Marlon would adapt to prison life with ease, and would make plenty
of friends inside. Again, it seemed a hell of a lot better than the
alternative.
Months went by,
and I kept checking the status of Marlon’s case online. The updates were slow
in coming. In desperation, I sent an email to the District Attorney, who was
handling the case. In my email, I explained Marlon’s history, literally begging
him not to allow any plea bargaining, and, for my brother’s sake, to prosecute
him to the fullest extent of the law. But my efforts were in vain. I never
received any kind of response.
For the last time,
Marlon was released from custody. Mom had finally decided that he wasn’t
allowed to move back home, and I have no idea what Marlon did during this time.
The last time I saw him was the day that he supposedly tried to commit suicide.
I’d gone out to Mom’s house to see him and to work on my truck. Marlon had been
tweaking really bad, but we talked for a couple hours. He’d wanted to come over
to my place like the old days, but I hadn’t felt comfortable doing that with
him in such a state. So I apologized and told him that I had other plans. That
was partially true, of course. I always have things to do. I just hope that if
he really did attempt suicide later that night, it wasn’t because he felt that
I’d rejected him.
Had I only known
that I’d never see him again, I of course would’ve done things differently. Now
I just have to live with it.
It was a few
months later that Troy gave me another update. Apparently, Marlon had called
Mom out of the blue and told her that he was now living in San Francisco. No
one had any idea how he got down there, and I assumed that he was living on the
streets. I was worried, but there was nothing I could do. I didn’t know if
Marlon was suicidal, but I figured that he’d hit rock bottom and didn’t care whether
he lived or died anymore.
Finally, on the
night of Friday, November 25th, 2022, I came home from work to find
a message from Robert on my phone. “Hey, Jess,” he said in a somber tone. “Give
me a call when you get a chance.”
My stomach sank.
This was the call I’d been expecting for many years.
I called Robert
back, and he told me that Marlon was dead. Of course, I began asking questions.
All Robert could tell me was that he’d received a message from someone in San
Francisco. “Who was it that called?” I wanted to know. With the crowd that
Marlon hung around with, you always had to be on the lookout for some type of
scam. “It was some guy who works in a medical office,” Robert replied. My mind
raced. “Was it the Medical Examiner’s Office?” I asked. “Yeah, that was it,”
Robert said. “Okay, then that was the coroner,” I explained. There was a pause.
“Oh, my God, Jess…”
In his grief,
Robert had waited to return the coroner’s call. When he did, a different person
answered and explained that he couldn’t give him any details, that he’d have to
call back and talk to the person who’d left the message. So Robert wasn’t able
to answer any of the questions swirling in my brain. I was chomping at the bit
to find out just how they identified Marlon. The prior incident of mistaken
identity at the hospital was still fresh in my mind, and I wanted to be absolutely
certain that they had the right person before I allowed myself to grieve.
Robert gave me the contact number and we hung up.
The first thing I
did was confirm that the number did in fact come from the San Francisco coroner.
A simple Google search did the trick. Next, I called Troy and told him that we
might’ve lost a brother.
To my utter
amazement, Troy was already aware of the situation. The coroner had called Mom,
too. She’d been too sick to answer the phone, so her roommate, Vicki, had taken
the message. Vicki had then called Troy. Of course, she hadn’t been able to
give Troy any details, either, so neither of us knew anything except that
Marlon was probably dead.
I went to bed that
night severely frustrated.
The next morning,
I called the San Francisco coroner. It was Saturday, so no one answered. I left
a very detailed message, basically telling the coroner everything I’d told the
nurses in the hospital a few years before. I just wanted confirmation that they
really had my brother and not some random dude who’d maybe stolen Marlon’s
wallet or something. I also wanted to know how he’d died. I figured it was an
overdose, but it could’ve been any number of things.
The coroner,
however, never bothered to return my call.
Robert, meanwhile,
decided to take control of the situation. He had a contact with a local funeral
home, and this gentleman made arrangements for Marlon to be cremated, and for
his remains to be shipped back to Reno. I relayed this message to Mom, and she
was grateful that Robert was handling everything.
A few days later,
Mom called to tell me that Vicki had “suddenly remembered” some of the details
of her conversation with the coroner. Apparently, Marlon had been taken to a
hospital and had denied treatment. A few hours later, he was found dead on the
sidewalk two blocks away. The end.
This time, I
didn’t even bother asking any questions.
I can only assume
that Marlon finally overdosed, or took something laced with fentanyl, which
seems to be the case more and more nowadays. By the time Mom called with
Vicki’s revelation, I’d already just accepted that my little brother was gone
and that I’d never know exactly what happened.
In the end, it
doesn’t really matter, anyway.
Finally, in late
December of 2022, Robert again left a message asking me to call him at my
convenience. When I did, he explained that he had Marlon’s remains. I was
incredibly relieved. I didn’t want my brother’s body interred in some unmarked
grave somewhere. Robert further explained that he’d bought a nice urn, and that
his friend at the funeral home was going to arrange to have the urn delivered to
Mom as she’d requested. Robert also said that part of Marlon’s ashes would be
buried alongside his parents’ gravesite, which I think Marlon would’ve wanted.
Anthony and Irene Miramontes were good and loving grandparents, and their
deaths had been very hard on him.
So that’s the
story of Marlon’s life as seen through my eyes. I figure that the least I can
do, the last act of a big brother towards his little brother, is to make sure
that he isn’t forgotten; that there will always be a record of who Marlon was,
and what he went through. I’ll never be as talented as Marlon when it comes to
drawing, painting, or sculpting, but I can damn sure use my talent for the
written word to honor him.
Now, all that
remains is the eulogy.
I realize that
I’ve spent the last nine thousand words describing Marlon mostly when he was at
his worst. To properly tell his story, I really had no choice. My intent was
neither to sugarcoat nor exaggerate, but to tell the truth as I saw it. But the
thing that I want to end with is something that I doubt has been made evident
thus far, which is simply this:
To know Marlon was
to love him.
I don’t say this
as his grieving older brother, but as someone who’s only interested in presenting
truth. Sure, as an addict, Marlon could be manipulative—and he certainly was
throughout his life—but I’m now speaking of Marlon when he was clean, when the
demons were at bay. The real Marlon, the man whom I’ll always remember, was
kind and smart, sensitive and caring, generous and personable. And funny. Few
people could crack me up the way Marlon did. All of us brothers tend to quote
movies often, and Marlon always had a way of slyly slipping in the perfect
quote in any conversation. Around me, he knew that he could really lean into
the sarcasm and caustic remarks, and he never hesitated.
Out of everything,
I’ll miss our laughter the most.
To further
illustrate what I mean, allow me to relate a few of my favorite memories
regarding Marlon.
Once upon a time,
I was a drummer and lead singer in a garage band called Super Chief. I took
Marlon to several of our jam sessions, and my bandmates, Derrick and Jason,
both liked Marlon right away. But I’ll never forget the first time that Marlon
met Derrick’s wife, Lisa. Like Marlon, Lisa has numerous tattoos, and moments
after their introduction, Lisa pulled Marlon aside and they fell into animated
discussion, pawing at each other and admiring their respective ink. Derrick and
I just watched in amusement as they forgot all about us. From that night
forward, whenever I went to jam or visit, Lisa never failed to inquire as to
how Marlon was doing.
The same thing
happened the first time I introduced Marlon to my ex-girlfriend, Jenni, who
also sported numerous tattoos. Jenni liked Marlon so much that, after their
initial meeting, she baked him a pie. In return, Marlon drew her a rather
grotesque picture which he titled: Pie Eater. Jenni loved his art, and
promptly framed Pie Eater for her wall.
My current
girlfriend, Michelle, only met Marlon once. Unfortunately, this was during one
of his dark times after he’d had friction with his father. Marlon had called me
in distress, asking if I could take him to get his blood pressure medicine. At
the time, Michelle lived in Sun Valley, just a few blocks from my childhood home.
I was at her place, and she graciously offered to drive both of us across town
to get the medicine and drop Marlon off at Robert’s house. I drove over to
Mom’s, brought Marlon back to Michelle’s, and gave him some breakfast. Marlon
hadn’t been taking his psych medication and was struggling to keep himself
under control. He was in quite a state. But even under those circumstances,
Michelle’s heart went out to him. She’s told me several times since that she
could see that he was a good person beneath the mental illness and the drug
addiction, and she wishes that someone could’ve helped him.
You see? To know
Marlon was to love him.
Now, it’s only
natural that when someone in Marlon’s predicament passes away, the surviving
family members begin to question whether or not they could’ve done more to
help. In Marlon’s case, however, I don’t think that anything any of us could’ve
done would’ve made any real difference. His inner demons were just too
powerful. What he needed was to live in some sort of “halfway house” where he
could’ve received 24/7 psychiatric care. A place where someone was always
around to make sure that he took his medications, and where someone was always
there to lock him down if he had a psychotic episode. A place where he could
work on his art daily, maybe engage in some menial chores, and perhaps be
granted day passes whilst in the care of a family member. That’s really what
Marlon needed to keep him on the straight and narrow, and he needed it
long-term. But if such a place exists, I’m unaware of it.
In any case, it’s
a moot point now.
As I come to the
end of this eulogy, nothing remains except to relate my favorite memory of my
youngest brother, Marlon Gerard Miramontes:
We were at my
place, sitting side by side on my couch, watching a movie. I don’t recall what
movie it was, but I do recall that Marlon had seemed very engrossed in it.
Suddenly, and very casually, Marlon slipped his left arm around my shoulders,
and left it there. Understand that I come from what might be called a “touchy-feely”
sort of family, where at any given moment, affection could be shown with a hug,
a slap upside the head, or an impromptu wrestling match in which furniture was
bound to be broken. But for some reason, this unexpected gesture of pure
brotherly love touched me deeply. I think that all those years of being away in
Seattle, of missing my brothers, finally caught up with me, and the next thing
I knew, I had tears in my eyes. Of course, being a macho schmuck, I didn’t want
Marlon to see me cry. I just clenched my jaw and fought back the emotion. But
the feeling of my brother’s arm around my shoulders has never left. Even now, the
memory of it makes my eyes glisten.
Until the very end
of his life, whenever Marlon and I would part, he’d give me a hug and say,
“Love you, big guy!” And I know in my heart that he meant it. No matter that he
was clean or sober, sane or unsane, he truly meant it every time he said it.
Just as much as I meant it when I told him that I loved him back.
Now I just wish
that we both had the chance to say it again.
Rest in peace,
Little Brother.
Your demons can’t
hurt you anymore.
—January 12th, 2023
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