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Someday Heinz Doofenshmirtz would be a famous scientist with a vast assortment of accidental inventions and discoveries solidifying his name among every major tech company and industry. He would solve more problems by stumbling into the solutions in the middle of a battle with a platypus than twenty years of Harvard graduates would on million dollar salaries, baffling the scientific community at large. He would be rich, not in money but in family, and he would be happy. 

But that was someday. Today he was nothing, a hungover hitchhiker on the side of a road deep in Europe, trying to get a ride to the airport three towns over so he could beg for a plane ticket home. 

The plan was to beg, but there were a number of problems with it. Firstly, the one person who might’ve given him a plane ticket was a man he hadn’t spoken to in over a year, and had sworn he’d never speak to again. Secondly, of the five cars that had passed in two hours, not a single one had offered him a ride. Thirdly, he wasn’t even sure where home was, he just knew it sure as hell wasn’t here. He was out of jobs and out of tricks, and the sole on his left sneaker was halfway off the shoe. He could feel the ooze from the morning’s rain sinking into his sock. 

In short, Heinz Doofenshmirtz was tired. Very, very tired. 

A pickup truck came skidding down the road– an American model in the middle of Italy. The driver rolled down a window just enough to stick out his thumb and gesture to the back. From where he stood, Heinz could see at least two different types of mud, and a spot that looked suspiciously like blood trailing down the sides. Delightful. 

He climbed up. The truck was going in the wrong direction, but it didn’t matter anyway. In both directions was a tiny town full of locals who didn’t speak his language, and tourists who’d spit on him, literally and metaphorically. The misery stretched out on both sides– all sides in this wretched country, and Heinz was tired. He would sit his ass down until someone forced him to move. 

Once upon a time, like an ironically twisted fairy tale, backpacking across Europe had seemed like a good idea. He’d had some money saved up from a single successful piece of art and a book of very questionable poetry (that he’d later deny ever existed in the first place), and, for lack of a better reason, hadn’t really had anything else to do. It had all spun from a thought that plagued Heinz Doofenshmirtz– a sudden realization he’d come to nearly a year and three months ago and had been running from ever since. 

It had started small. He’d been standing at the library, staring at a shelf of poetry books, trying to convince himself to check one out because he had to get better. But why? His brain asked, why do we need to be better? Nobody reads our poetry anyway. 

It was a fair point, the point his brain made, which was followed by the point that he didn’t even like poetry, he’d just been doing it to get away from science, which he didn't really like either, not anymore. This was followed by the additional thought that he didn’t even like anything really, and that, without anyone paying attention to him, nothing he did mattered at all. He'd turned around and left the library and bought a plane ticket to Europe that same night. 

The only thing to do with that kind of revelation was to pick a direction and start walking. 

The road underneath the truck was bumpy, and Heinz tried to lay down as best he could. The ride would only be an hour or so, but his back was very sore and sitting seemed to make it worse. He’d spent the night before in a hotel room, and in order to sleep there, he’d had to earn a spot. He didn’t particularly want to think about what that had entailed. He’d gotten up in the morning, collected his clothes off of the floor, started walking east. He wasn't sure if he'd been hoping for something different, or if he'd just needed to be somewhere else. He hadn’t looked back until the truck started driving in the wrong direction. But it didn't matter anyway. Backwards and forwards were the same here, spinning into each other with the bleeding of the brutal days. 

Altruca wasn’t a harbor town, or a particularly scenic town, or anything important really-- it was just a place in Italy. But for Heinz, backtracking into the mix of historic and modern buildings shadowed by the setting sun felt almost hellish. He was nauseous, riding back into his thoughts, and he wanted a distraction. He wanted a drink. He wanted a soft bed but he didn’t think he had what it took to pay for one, not again. 

There was a very thin line between surviving and living, and Heinz had waltzed that line for nearly a year in Europe, dancing and drinking, then pulling himself off of the floor and walking from place to place until his knees screamed in pain and his slouch was permanent. He'd started with jobs, small jobs here and there, but even that was too much and he'd blown through the rest of his money walking without a will to stop. He walked until it was impossible to think about anything other than the agony of survival. When he had stopped, he cried in front of strangers and spat poetry like performance art, and they threw their drinks onto the pathetic American man and tossed him rolls of bread to cry again. He was a pet to the Europeans, a creature with an odd gait and half-baked words, and he couldn’t be sure if the last year had really happened, or if it had all just been some odd kind fever dream. He’d lost count of the days. Somehow, he’d managed to walk here, a place where the roads took days to meet the towns, leaving him stranded in an ocean of pointlessness, walking, and agony. 

It didn’t matter. He didn’t matter. He had no purpose in life, not a single goal or ambition or anything, and he thought he may as well wander until his knees gave out and he keeled over dead. 

Weeks ago, in a different town before Italy, he thought he might’ve died. He’d collapsed in the square after nearly five days without food. Nobody in that area had been partial to handouts and the people passed him without a single thought or notice. His head was on the ground, and the cobblestone was digging into his ear. He couldn't believe the road was actually made of cobblestone– god honest cobblestone with rough edges like some ancient language lecturing him, and all he could think about was the stupid road, how easy it would’ve been in this modern day and age to turn it into something else, anything else. With the right tools he could’ve built them a road that folded up and rolled itself out like a racetrack, or drove their cars for them, or stretched out an illusion to look like cobblestone and solved all of their problems, but he didn’t want to. He could've been a hero, instead of some guy to ignore on the street, but he didn’t have the money for the materials, and even if he did and he built the damn thing, then he’d just be Heinz Doofenshmirtz, inventor of a really good road, and he didn’t want to be Heinz Doofenshmirtz, inventor of a really good road. 

Although he was excellent at science and could turn anything into anything else just by looking at it, he didn’t enjoy it. Maybe he had, once upon a time, back when the shed was his safe space away from his mother with a wrench and a cockroach, but he didn’t anymore. There was no point. He didn’t want to invent, didn’t want to keep building things that made other people happy while he lived in the dark. He didn’t care. He didn’t even want to create at all, not art, not poetry, nothing. 

He was just barely in his twenties– he was supposed to want something, supposed to crave some kind of great purpose that the whole rest of the world ran on like a current of electricity. He was supposed to love shoes or law or nature or politics (like Roger ) and decide that one of those things was the thing he was going to dedicate his life towards, but every time he soul-searched he came up with nothing. He hated shoes and he hated nature and he’d been avoiding any kind of internet because he knew he’d google his brother, and find out from some job board that Roger was doing very well. The only thing Heinz's brain could possibly fabricate wanting was to drink and forget, and so he’d been doing just that, walking around Europe, hoping to stumble across some kind of great purpose in life. But he was tired. He was so so tired. He wanted to go home. 

The truck hit a pothole so deep Heinz was flung almost half a foot in the air. He’d already changed his mind about going back to town, but he had no way to tell the driver to stop, and didn’t have the energy to pound on the glass separating them. Besides, they were basically already there. 

He knew that he needed to call Roger. His younger brother had money– he could spot him a plane ticket, fly him back to America, and then he could get into some savings, somewhere, or take out a loan and get a job. He knew he still had a decent credit score. He could build a life in America, dig from the ground up and pull himself out again. 

But then what? Go back to inventing things for other people while sitting in a dark apartment, alone? Go back to the awkwardness, the loneliness, the kind of problematically chatty where the barista at the local coffee shop winced to see him? It hadn’t worked in college– what could possibly convince him it would work now? He had no friends, no family, and no point to anything. Where would he go? 

The truck driver stopped at the edge of town, and made a waving motion from the inside of the cab. Clearly he wanted Heinz to get out. He complied, and winced as his knees buckled a little on the jump down. 

He was wearing out his body. If he stayed, he would drown; at some point, he would fall apart and wither in the streets of Italy. Nobody would know that he spoke four languages, or could build a microscope out of stolen parts from three handheld radios and a pair of glasses. It would never matter who he was or where he came from– and all of the knowledge inside of his head, the endless rattling voices would die with him. He would change nobody’s lives, and it would be over. 

There was an odd kind of peace in that. He’d sold bratwursts for a little bit, and it was almost pleasant work, to role and scoop and be pointless. He didn’t have to have a purpose. He could waste his intelligence away. He didn’t have to think.

He sunk down onto the sidewalk. It didn’t matter where he sat, he would sleep anywhere, on any road and the voices would taunt him and plague his dreams, and everything would be the same. 

Suddenly, something hit his head and bounced onto the street in front of him. 

It was a coin. Despite having been in the country for months, Heinz still didn’t know how much it was in currency, but he knew it was enough to make a phone call. It sat grimy on the street, winking up at him in the last of the setting sun. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a lady in a shawl walking away. She must’ve thrown the coin at him. He wanted to open his mouth to thank her, but the words wouldn’t come out. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. 

His fingertips were shaky around the coin. He was almost afraid he would drop it. He cupped it gingerly, between both hands. 

There was a phone booth on the corner. He’d slept in it two nights ago. His legs were moving before he could stop them, climbing inside and collapsing into the government-sanctioned chair. The sun had finished setting, and the people were beginning to clear the streets. He waited. He knew that they couldn’t hear him, inside of the booth, but if he really was going to beg, he didn’t want anyone around, just in case.

Twenty minutes later the moon had only just graced the sky, but he knew he’d procrastinated long enough. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it now. With shaky fingers he dropped the coin in and pressed the buttons. 

It rang. He wasn’t sure if he wanted the other end to pick up. 

It rang again. Outside, a soft pitter-patter of rain began to fall. 

It rang again. “Hello?” 

Heinz swallowed. “Roger?” His voice came out creakier, and deeper than he remembered it. 

“Heinz? Is that you?” The words were both loud and muffled, aggressive background chatter threatening to overtake them. Heinz clenched the phone just a bit tighter. 

“Yeah.” 

“Heinz!” Roger said, accenting the z louder than the rest of the syllables. It sounded like he was at a bar. Was he drunk? “It’s been over a year! I’ve missed you sooooo much.”

Heinz couldn’t tell if the sentence was genuine. “You– you missed me?” 

“Sure I did! I wanted to call and ask– and ask how Europe was but–” a voice in the background, clearer than the others but still too muffled to make out the words, interrupted him- “Ah Charles! I’m talking to my brother! You remember my brother? I told you about my brother right? Heinz this is Charles he’s a- he’s a fine lad- a fine lad yes– he’s helping me with my english accent! Am I doing it right?” 

The accent was clearly still Drusselstinean. Roger was clearly drunk. Heinz opened his mouth, but before he could get a word out, he was interrupted. 

“There’s just so much woooooork in politics brother, truly I don’t know if I’m cut out for it.” Roger laughed, an odd sounding thing that had just a bit too much salt in it to sound happy. “These american boys are good liars Heinz, almost makes me wish I was evil, like you.” 

Evil?  

“Yeah, evil-” Heinz hadn’t realized he’d said it outloud, “-like all those books you used to read! Remember? From the library? About the scientists? You read to me all the time– Oh! We should read together sometime! All the American books are so boring– do you think mother would fly me over some books? She’d fly me over some books right?” 

At that moment, Heinz had a flash of a memory. Himself. Roger. The living room carpet. An odd Saturday night where neither parent was home, and he had permission to smile in the family space. If he concentrated he could remember a baby Roger– his responsibility, don’t let anything happen to him– toddling around in circles on the rug in overalls. Heinz was wearing a dress– god knows he remembered the dress– and reading, outloud, from a book. 

He’d loved to read. He’d read so many books as a child. He hadn’t read a single thing longer than a street sign in years. 

“--still doing evil? Evil backpacking? I think I might switch over, nothing about politics makes me happy but shhh, don’t tell anyone, they all think I know what I’m doing.” Roger laughed again, but the pain in this one was stronger, and for just a brief, fleeting moment, Heinz wished this conversation wasn’t happening over the phone. 

He swallowed. “Really? You- you seem like you’ve got it all under control.” 

Roger was still laughing, louder now. “Ha! HA! HAHA! I can– hahA- I can assure you brother- ohhhh I can assure you– I really don’t. I graduate next month– can you imagine that? Me? Graduated? What am I supposed to do brother– I still sound like an immigrant! I will not be American enough, and what then?” 

Heinz didn’t know. There was a pause. “You’re more American than me. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” 

“I’ll figure it out? Did you figure it out? How did you figure it out? You always seem so certain– oh I’m going to Europe, oh I’m writing poetry, oh I sold my art piece for ten thousand dollars– I’ve never sold anything a day in my life! How am I supposed to sell myself, as an American product?” 

It was a valid question. Behind the words, the clamor at the bar was picking up again. Heinz felt a sort of panicked restlessness settle over him– he knew this was an isolated moment. He knew they were never having this conversation again. “I- I don’t know. But Roger? You’ve always been really good at figuring it out.” What the hell was he doing? He didn’t know what to say. “You got this far– you can–” he swallowed, “-- you can do it. If anyone can, you can. I think– I think you’d be a really good mayor, if you wanted to be. Or a senator– or maybe even law school, later, if you wanted? There’s a ton of good options and maybe you could just fuck around with them? And try some stuff?” 

He paused. All he could hear from the other end of the phone was the bar. He hated this. He wanted to leave. He wanted to hug his brother. He wanted a drink. He wanted to go home. But he couldn’t. The home and the brother he missed were nothing more than drunken figments of his imagination. As soon as the morning came, they’d hate each other again. 

Both brothers were silent for a long time. 

When Roger’s voice finally came again it was quieter. Younger. Heinz had to strain his ears to pick it up over the background noise. “Heinz? I’m sorry for messing up your painting.” 

He sighed. “It’s okay. It wasn’t that great anyway.” 

“But you said it was your best.” 

“It was. But I’m bad at art.” 

“But you could’ve sold it.” 

“I could’ve, but it didn’t happen and so it doesn’t matter. Don’t pester me about it.” 

“Okay.” Roger paused for several moments. “Brother,” he finally said, “do you love me? Even though you hate me?”

Heinz was silent for a long minute. Some kind of emotion was stirring in an empty part of his chest, and if he opened his mouth he wasn't sure if he'd vomit or sing.

"Brother?"

He really didn't want to answer but he knew the truth. “Yes.” 

“Yes you love me, or yes you hate me?”

“Both.” 

“Oh.” 

The bar noises were getting louder again. Heinz didn’t know what else to say.

“Heinz?" Roger asked, "I want to go home.” 

Outside, the rain continued to drum down. Heinz knew he’d be sleeping in the phone booth. “Me too Roger. Me too.” 

They sat on the line for a minute, without speaking. The bar and rain noises began to bleed into each other in Heinz's ears like a clusterfuck of symphony, people chattering in tune with the drumming on top of the phone booth. It sounded, for a moment, as though both brothers were somehow in the same place, in the same room. It was raining inside of the bar. Heinz could feel his brother’s shoulder press against his own. 

“You have. Ten seconds remaining.” The automated voice was shrill. Heinz winced. 

“Goodbye Heinz,” Roger said, “I love you.” 

Heinz whispered into the phone, “I love you too.”