Two Leicas and a Funeral Part #1

     It's been a few years now since my father died. His health had been failing but, perhaps as an extension of my own youthful feelings of immortality, his passing came completely unexpected. It hit me like the proverbial and cliche ton of bricks. I don't think I'll ever forget the balmy hot evening when I got the phone call.
      My apartment in South Philadelphia looked typical for a young man living alone. Mattress on the floor, bare windows, record player in the corner with large round pieces of vinyl, splayed about in different degrees of undress. I had just come home from a run in the city. 8 miles of pounding the black top, weaving block to block through some of Philly's grittiest and most violent neighborhoods. Happy to be home, I collapsed into bed not even bothering to shower. I had fallen into a deep sleep for an hour or so when the harsh sound of a cell phone vibrating against hardwood woke me up. Looking at the screen I realized it was Julian calling me. Just my brother Julian; probably inviting me to dinner. I ignored the call.
      My eyes finally opened around 9PM, when the last rays of light had already retreated from the western window in my bedroom. The room was much colder and the only connection I felt to the outside world were the voices and smells that wafted up from South Street, an area that was just hitting it's stride that night, just getting ready to see what collective trouble it could involve itself in.
      It was hard to pry my eyes away from my ceiling, the relfection and shadows of light shifting through the windows as each car passed by. Suddenly, my mine shifted to my cell phone and I remembered the missed call. There was a voice mail too. At 23 years old I rarely ever listened to my voicemail messages, it wasn't uncommon for there to be 15 of them, unopened in the mailbox on my cell phone.
       This was family however, so I listened. The message was short and sweet.
Julian : "James, It's your brother: Julian. Dad's dead. Call me back.