A Very Dangerous Thing

A text message is a very dangerous thing. Mark often thought to himself that if he ever got married and had an affair (which let’s be honest was probably going to happen) a stray dirty text message would be the lipstick on his collar, discovered by his wife, which gave up the game. Also, Mark often feared that he would eventually send a text message to someone other than the intended recipient, which he knew would lead to a thoroughly messy situation.
The most practical worry Mark had, concerning text messages, was the concern that one of his parents might happen across a thread of text messages between Mark and one of his younger brothers. He had three younger brothers. The way he conversed with them in front of his parents, and the way he conversed with them via text messages, were two very different ways. If his mother caught him saying “the f word” to his younger brothers the consequences would surely be severe.
Mark did not live at home during the school year; he was a thousand miles south at a university. His younger brothers missed him but, unlike he in his middle/high school years, they had cell phones to keep in touch with their departed sibling. Mark never felt they were too far out of reach, even while popular belief held that the digital age had destroyed genuine human connection.
Peter was Mark’s brother, two years his junior, and if there were a funnier boy to interact with Mark had yet to encounter him. A text message from Peter always meant a laugh. Mark appreciated Peter’s ability to curse like a sailor without sounding like he was trying, a talent honed by summers spent among farmers and more liberal aunts. On a practical note, Mark also appreciated that Peter, like his older brother, properly formatted and punctuated his text messages. If abbreviations were used it meant that someone was being mocked.
Mark sat in his dorm room on a Saturday afternoon, homework and various tasks slowly being completed. Peter sent him a text message, in search of a conversation.
“Have you read Tom Sawyer?” Said the message. “It’s the most offensive book!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” Peter lived under the assumption that no recognized literary classics could be shocking or sensational in any way, an assumption Mark was forever encouraging him to give up.
Mark smirked and, having nothing cleverer to say, replied, “Yeah, it’s a regular pulp fiction.” Mark returned to the book he had been skimming. He read half a page and began worrying that his text message had been too final. Perhaps Peter wouldn’t reply. Mark wanted the interaction, so he followed up his last message with an addendum. “R U reading it 4 school? LOLOLOLOLOLOLOL!?” The brothers felt very superior to their peers when they mockingly replaced words with single characters and added a dozen L’s and O’s for condescending flourish.
A reply! “They’re talking about having orgies once they’re robbers. But Tom doesn’t actually know what they are, just that robbers have them.” Another text followed, “Got your last, yeah Mom’s making us read it in class.”
Mark wasn’t sure where to go from there. “Oh. Good. I think it’s better than Huck Finn. Mrs. V kinda beat the joy out of that one.”
“That bitch would beat a dumb southern boy.” Mark laughed aloud. The joke wasn’t even that funny, but he could imagine Peter’s expression and delivery as though his brother were sitting right there in the room.
“What about the N word?” Mark felt dirty texting the word in full. “Do you guys read it out loud?”
“We read some out loud. Some by ourselves. Mom just says ‘n word.’ They say it so much!!!!!”
“I told you it was pulp fiction. Just be glad no one’s getting raped.” Mark remembered watching Pulp Fiction with his younger brother. It had been after a particularly long day of work. At first he’d told Peter that he was too young to watch it, then he’d recalled how hard the two of them had laughed after Mark, seeing a dead snake, had screamed “Holy shit! Fuck! Shit!” in surprise. So Mark had told Peter he could stay and watch, but God help him if he told Mom and Dad.
Peter’s response message arrived. “Wait… NO rape? What version did you read? Don’t you remember when Tom and Becky were in the cave? And Injun Joe caught them?” Mark wasn’t surprised, but he pretended to be.
“Wow. Nice. That’s like a children’s classic. Also, you should write your essay on how that probably did happen but Mark Twain just didn’t include it.” Mark’s homework lay forgotten. He reminisced and laughed to himself between texts.
Peter responded. “OMG!! AGREE!!!!!!” Mark laughed and worried at the same time. Peter was mimicking some friends of their cousin who had written this same message in a chain email, so the text was funny. However, it was a brief text and looked like steps toward a conclusion to the conversation, which Mark didn’t want. He could think of no way to reopen the topic though, so he replied in similar brevity.
“Haha. Oh wow.” Mark waited for a reply, fearful that he’d put an end to the exchange. Peter came through for his older brother.
“Remember when I snuck down and surprised you at college? Yeah, that was awesome…” He was completely changing gears. Mark was thrilled for the revitalization!
“Yeah I remember. Any time you want to repeat would be sweet.” This was just the start, Mark was certain, of another wave of messages.
“That’s what I was thinking. If only I didn’t have school or need a job, but somehow had tons of money, I really should work on that.”
Mark thought it was time for some trashy humor. “I suppose prostitution is out of the question? I’m sure there’s priests around there who’d give you a cut of the offering for your… services.” Mark sat back in his chair, daydreaming and waiting for a reply. After a couple minutes he figured Peter was working on a lengthy response, so Mark opened his computer and printed a report he’d already written.
The report was stapled and safely stowed in the proper notebook on Mark’s shelf, and Peter still hadn’t replied. Mark didn’t want the conversation to end, so he sent another message, this time legit business. “You should ask Dad and Mom if you can visit at spring break.” Again Mark waited for a reply, but none came. He became annoyed at Peter. The little brat was probably at a friend’s house, or having friends over to visit, and had lost interest in his pestering older brother.


Two days later Mark was home for the funeral.
Not watching the road while attempting to forge a succinct and humorously potent text message, Peter had swerved into an oncoming Ford. It was the same kind of shitty monstrosity that Mark and Peter had driven to countless fields over the course of seven summers working together.
A friend of the brothers’ parents had to call to tell Mark the news.
Mark had told Peter so many times not to send text messages while he drove. “Do as I say, not as I do.” He’d told him to be careful who saw his phone. He told him to use a little common sense every now and then. He’d told him so many times. A text message is a very dangerous thing.