| As I think about some of the crazy things that have happened in my life so far, I think, "Boy, I sure did cause a lot of people grief." Sometimes I picture myself as "Gilligan" and the not-so-lucky person I happen to be around at the time as "The Captain". Through it all—through all life’s changes—that’s the one thing that has never changed. That’s just the way it’s been. Just ask my cousin, Brian. He is probably the ideal "Captain" when it comes to being on "Gilligan’s Island". I can’t think of anyone else who has been affected more by the wrath of my sporadic thoughtlessness. Through the years, as life has presented its changes and slight—dilemmas, every now and then I’ll hear him utter under his breath, "some things never change."
Now, Brian isn’t the only one to have had to suffer. There have been many "Captains" of differing genders and ages. Like my mother, for instance. I once woke her up in the middle of the night with my bloody leg up on her bed. I think I was about fourteen years old or so. I had darted around the edge of my bed and didn’t notice that the railing had come loose and it was sticking out just enough to put a gaping laceration about seven inches long just above my ankle. She had to sit with me in the emergency room all night that night and into the early morning, and then she had to go right to work. It was something like this all the time—poor woman. I also remember a similar "Captian and Gilligan" event in which my stepfather had to do about the same thing due to the fact that I had ran into the corner of a little glass door—"the" glass door—"the notorious" glass door, rather. It was about a fifteen-inch square door on the front of a television stand. It sort of swung open right into the path of the room’s doorway; so I had to make sure that I always remembered to close it—yeah right. Anyone who’s met me knows all about my little—um—memory problem. The first time I had to replace it, it had been broken by our cat—yes—our cat—I swear. To this day, my mother still doesn’t believe it. The cat had gotten spooked by something (you know how cats are), and it jumped and turned around to take off like a bullet and ran into the door and shattered it. It stammered around for a second and then took off again. "Unbelievable," was my only thought as I sat there in awe. Then, after a few seconds, I began to laugh knowing that, with my history, no one would believe it; and I was right. To this day, my mother still shakes her head in disbelief. The second, third—and FOURTH time I had to replace the glass, (I’ll admit it, I never learned my lesson), I simply ran right into the darn thing. Maybe it was just some weird mental game. I mean—I had broken this piece of glass at least twice with each leg, and I never even got a scratch. Maybe subconsciously I was just trying to live on the edge (no pun intended). Maybe I was just trying to see how invincible I really was. Maybe I—no—actually—I really was just that clumsy. The FIFTH time was the final straw. I just never replaced it again. I had gotten up in the middle of the night and—"CRASH". I spent most of the night in the emergency room with my stepfather while getting a few more stitches in my leg. He had planned all that week to go fishing the following morning, and he did; but what’s really funny is that he had to spend most of that day in the emergency room because he got a hook stuck in his finger and couldn’t get it out. Oh, the irony. I really felt bad for the man. While recollecting, I realize that things like this happened all the time to everyone around me. I’m surprised that they all haven’t just deserted me. Take my brother, Rodney, and his wife, Candy, for instance. A couple of years ago, I had moved back home in order to save some money and pay off a few debts. After a while, it became a hassle for my mom, so my brother and his wife offered their basement to me. I accepted. They had no idea what they had done until it was too late. A few months prior to this, I took in a little puppy—just a little puppy—no big deal, right? Well, the puppy, "Freddy," had grown into a D—O—G! He—was—HUGE! He was just about six months old, and already weighed about a hundred and ten pounds. He was part German shepherd, part Hound, and part—hippopotamus; basically, a really big, floppy, German Shepherd. He was really smart, but really—really ecstatic (No, really—he was like a dinosaur version of a Chihuahua hooked on coffee beans). For a while, I kept him in the garage. I won’t go into too much detail, but let’s just say that the garage walls had been painted with "poo". After a while, I made the decision to put him outside. I had wanted to wait until winter was over, but I had some strong encouragement from Rodney and Candy. I bought a doghouse, one of those twisty steaks that you put in the ground to chain him up, and a new bowl. I didn’t want him being cold, so I put a few towels inside and I hung one over the door with some screws screwed right into the top of the entrance. Every day it was the same thing: I would walk in and say, "Hey. What are you d—…" Candy would but in, "Go out and get that dumb dog of yours. He pulled the steak out of the ground, dragged the towels out of the house, and dragged the house all over the yard by the towel over the door. AND he’s digging more holes in the yard! AND—I can’t even walk out there for all the poop! " I bought a kennel, and it worked, but I could tell that the poor dog wasn’t happy. He needed a big farm to run around on, animals to chase, holes to dig. So, with a tear in my eye, I gave Freddy away. After that mess, and after causing their electric and water bill to shoot up, and after keeping them awake playing guitar late at night, I decided that it was time to head back out on my own and find an apartment again. Now, don’t get me wrong, with all the grief my brother caused me growing up, I didn’t feel too bad about it, but, still, I realized that it was time to move on. I think about things like this happening around the people I know all the time, but like I said, most of all, when I think of causing grief to someone, I think of my cousin Brian. We never really spent any time together growing up, and these days he probably wishes that it had never changed. But change it did. It’s funny how things change. I don’t believe in evolution, but I certainly believe that we are ever-changing beings. Just as we grow out of and into certain clothes, we grow out of and into certain propensities–or—tastes. It’s a peculiar thing how our tastes change as we get older. Our taste in food, toys, music, television, people, it all changes. When I was a kid, I hated macaroni salad, but, as fate would have it, that would change. After playing outside, pretending to be a super-human ninja on a motorcyle (my old beat up bike), for a few hours, I ran inside to raid the refrigerator, but all that was inside it was, you guessed it, mom’s infamous big tupper-ware bowl of lip-curling macaroni salad. I must have just gotten off the bus that day and immediately transformed into super ninja motorcyle man without eating anything because some strange force made me reach in and take out the big bowl. We never really had those, sit down and discuss your day, nice family dinners; I guess my brother and I disappeared too much after school for that to happen; so we always just fended for ourselves. I’m sure I just got preoccupied and forgot to eat because I—was—HUNGRY; and that meant something—really. My mom, dad, brother, and I would all hop in the car and drive forty-five minutes just to eat at Taco Bell (there wasn’t a Taco Bell in town, and they all just loved the place). After a fine family meal at the border (actually I wasn’t too crazy about the place then. We would usually have to stop somewhere else just so I could get a burger and fries or something—boy, that has certainly changed; I LOVE Taco Bell! Heck, I worked there for three whole years when I was in high school and college, and I still LOVE the place! There you go—tastes change!) Sorry, where was I? Oh—after we ran for the border, we ran back home. By the time we got home, which, again, was about forty-five minutes or so, I would walk in the door and proceed directly to the refrigerator. They would all look at me in disbelief as I poured a glass of iced tea and opened a can of beef ravioli. My point, I was always hungry as it was, so after missing dinner, I was really hungry! I poked my head into the enormous bowl of macaroni salad and it didn’t smell quite as bad as it had before. I slowly took a bite, and realized that it really wasn’t all that bad. It was actually kind of good. I couldn’t believe it. I probably ate about half the bowl. And today, I actually like it. I spent countless hours playing with my He-Man action figures, but one day, it just changed. I guess it was due to the fact that one day I jumped on my bed buck-naked (don’t ask—I was a strange little kid), and one of the toys which was lying on the bed pinched and hung on for dear life to my—um—"water spout" as I called it. I then ran into the living room screaming and crying with a little, plastic action figure dangling from my mid section until my mother was able to free me. So—after that incident, I moved on to G.I. Joes. I think that deep down, I’ve always liked most of the music that I like now, but I just never heard much of it; so I reverted to what was "in" at the time or what my brother liked. I remember lying on the floor listening to an old Jim Croce record and absolutely falling in love with it; and there were a few other times that I can recall being intrigued by good music. But most of all, I remember the big-hair bands of the eighties; and I remember the whole early nineties thing (whatever you want to call it). But after being introduced to playing gospel and old-time country music on the guitar by my grandfather, my whole concept of music changed, heck—my whole life changed. I have to admit, I still love cartoons and goofy, immature humor, but I find myself sucked in by a good program on the Discovery channel or the History channel, or on TLC or something all grown up like that more and more these days. So, there—more change. Ok, with all that explained, let me get back to Brian. Like I said, We never spent that much time together growing up. To be honest, I didn’t like him. What can I say? I loved toys, and he never let me play with his toys; that is, unless he was right there with me controlling the action. But I loved his toys. He always had all the coolest toys. It was bad. I remember sneaking into his room when he was gone just so I could play with all his toys. They were cool, but I think the biggest reason I did it was just in spite of him. I was a curious kid, and he just didn’t like anyone messing with his things. We just didn’t get along. There were those rare occasions when he would let me play Nintendo with him; I think it was just because he was the "master of Nintendo" and he knew that he could beat me every time. Either way, it was fun. One of the memories I have that reminds me of our relationship growing up is of the time I decided to borrow his bike. I was probably about six or seven, and he must have been about twelve. He was nowhere around, so I thought that it would be ok if I took his bike out for a little spin. He didn’t quite think so though. He came home to find his bike missing. I’m sure he immediately thought something like, "That little turd! At it again, huh? Well, let’s see if he can ride a bike without any legs!" He hunted me down and threw me off of his bike; and after a few choice words, he rode home. I cried and yelled at him telling him how much I hated him. Of course, I was upset, so I devised a plan. "This time," I thought, "I’m gonna git ‘m good." Now, I have to expose something about myself—something a little embarrassing. I had a little bit of a bed-wetting problem—ok—not really a little problem—it was a big problem. My mother used to get so mad at me because she had to wash my bed sheets practically every day. I would dream that I was peeing in the toilet and wake up in a puddle (I know—gross). Brian knew about my problem all too well because he admits that one time he walked by my bedroom late at night and saw me—actually standing—that’s right—standing on my bed—peeing! Yes, you read it correctly. I was standing on my bed in the middle of the night—PEEING! I remember it too. I’m pretty sure that it was one of those dreams again. But you want to know the absolutely most hideous part about it? I simply lied back down and went to sleep—right back on the bed that I had peed on! Yes, you read it correctly. I lied back down and went to sleep in a warm puddle of pee. Yup—gross—I know. I was still mad about the bicycle incident, so I decided to raid his room, play his video games, play with all his toys, and top the night off with a few tall glasses of soda before going to bed—in his bed. He was gone for the weekend, and I took full advantage of it. The plan was full-proof; except for one minor detail: his mom, Aunt Debbie. I woke up with a smile the following morning because I could feel the familiar dampness that, for once, I had actually tried to create. I made the bed nice and neat and headed on my way. I was already playing it all out in my head: Brian would come home and take a nice, warm shower; and feeling neat and clean (as he always tried so hard to be) and ready for bed, he would sink down into his cozy comfort of the sleep that awaited. Then, after a few minutes, he would start feeling that stinky dampness, fermented by the heat of the sun shining through the windows for hours, and realize that he is floating on a mattress of pee. Awesome. However, Debbie too knew all about my problem, so she was smart enough to check the bed after I had left. My plan had been ruined. As I was walking up the uphill road, which lead to our grandparents house, I heard the front door slam. What followed was, "DJ! DJ!!! I can’t believe you! You get your little…" I just took off like the place was on fire. I heard her screaming at me for the entire couple of hundred yards up to my grandparent’s house. To this day, I still have no idea what all she said to me. About thirty minutes later, I looked down the road and saw her carrying the mattress outside. It was a contradiction of emotions. At first, I felt kind of sorry for her, but then I remembered the fact that she had ruined my elaborate plan. "Wretched woman!" I thought. But, like I said, things change. I stopped wetting the bed, Brian lightened up a little, we grew out of our toys and bikes, and Brian and I developed a close friendship a several years later. Even today, I’m not really sure why he hung around me so much. I mean—It seems that every time we got together, something stupid happened—and I was usually the cause of it. And it seems that I never had any money, so, of course, he was always paying my way when we would decide to go do something. Every Now and then, we would hop in his little, white, Mazda pickup and drive a couple of hours to Dollywood. Looking back, I think our rate of successful trips was about 45 percent. One trip I recall ended up with us standing in the parking lot for a few minutes discussing my memory problem. Actually, it wasn’t much of a discussion at all; it was more like: he said, "You’re an idiot," and I said, "I know. Oh—and—can I borrow twenty bucks?" He shook his head, and we left to go ride go-carts. I was pretty sure that I had it the first time he asked, so I didn’t bother looking, and I just shrugged my shoulders and said, "Yeah, man, I got it." Immediately, I thought, "Heck, what’s the point of taking the time to look when I already know I have it and we’re already running late?" The second time he asked, I just thought, "There he goes again—Mr. Worry Wart." I answered in about the same nonchalant manner. As we were getting into the truck, he asked a third time—very deliberately, "DJ—are you sure—you have your season pass to Dollywood?" This time I said—very deliberately, "Dang! Yes! OK? I’ve got the stupid ticket! It’s in my wallet, which is in my pocket, which is under my butt, which is what you can kiss if we don’t get there sometime today. Now let’s get movin’!" He rolled his eyes and said, I’m sorry, but with the way things usually go…" "Ah, yeah, yeah, yeah," I butted in, "I know. I know. Can we PLEASE go now?" Like I said, we got to the parking lot, and got out of the car. It wasn’t until this time that I decided it was actually appropriate to check to make sure that I did, in fact, have my Dollywood season pass. You guessed it; it was missing, and Brian just stood there in disbelief for a few seconds until we had our little conversation about my forgetfulness and decided to leave. Another unsuccessful Dollywood venture resulted in us leaving the place water-logged (which was not a result from a fun day full of water rides) and me leaving with footless socks—yes—footless socks. Let me explain: About twenty minutes after we arrived, as we were waiting in line to ride the famous "Slidewinder", Brian looked at me with a grin and said, "Well, we actually made it further than the parking lot. What are you gonna screw up this time?" I looked back and said in my most sarcastic tone, "Funny—really fun—ny…" I was interrupted by a loud rumbling sound. Suddenly, the sky just went completely black. The rain came without any further warning. It was coming down in buckets—a monsoon, I tell you! We started running for shelter, but every place was taken. We ended up running what felt like a mile all the way back to the main entrance. On the way, I realized that my sandals were slowing me down. Brian had always made fun of the fact that I wore sandals all the time; he still does actually. What can I say? I love to wear sandals. I always have. But I guess he had me on this one. I had to take the sandals off. By the time we got to shelter, I had completely worn the bottoms right off my socks. I know, I know; socks with sandals? Well, don’t ask. I’ve listened to this for years. What can I say? It was what I liked. Brian laughed at me all the way home. Through it all, I think we both found that we had a lot more in common than we wanted to admit; like our love for basketball for instance. We would go out every other day and play a pick-up game at the park or with the kids in the neighborhood. He would act like Michael Jordan with his tongue hanging out, and I would simply try not to kill myself. I’m not sure if we ever found anything that was safe from mishap though. Even in playing basketball, there seemed to be that cloud hovering over us—well, over me at least—he just happened to always be in the wrong place at the wrong time (with me). There was the time we drove to Fort Knox to see my brother, who had just graduated basic training in the Army. We decided that it would be a good idea to take advantage of certain facilities; namely: the basketball court. We walked into the gym feeling like real men. At the time, we both had our heads shaved, so we thought that we might pass for soldiers. We walked out feeling like a couple of real certified dorks. When we entered we found a gym full of a bunch of very physically fit soldiers dressed in small, gray army t-shirts and shorts running all over the court. We stood there in our "official NBA jerseys" recently bought at the mall and wondered why we were really there. We found a corner to hide in—I mean—we seized a corner of the gym, and we decided that it would be best if we just stayed there and refrained from making any of the military’s finest look bad; you know—sort of our way of showing respect for the country. Such patriots we were. Soon after we began playing, a couple of very fit, very tall, and very—um—black gentlemen asked us if we’d like to play a little "two on two." We looked at each other, and we each noticed the look of concern on the others face. We quickly changed that look from concern to indifference and said in unison, "Ah, sure. Why not?" as if we had to consider taking the time to stoop to their level of inexperience. But what we were really thinking was, "Gulp." We decided not to inform them that we were part of a unique league of players, a league of Greene County’s, finest: the RBA. That’s the Redneck Basketball Association. We didn’t want to intimidate them too much, so we just modestly kept quiet and began the game. It started out fine. They would score, then we would score, then they would score, and we would score. This went on for a while, and we thought that we actually had a chance. But when clutch time came, they dominated their last possession. The score at the end of the game was about twelve to ten. We were feeling pretty confident, so instead of leaving Kentucky with a little bit of that confidence, like an old man with a gambling problem, we took the fatal chance and said, "You wanna play one more?" I guess, like anyone who’s ever played and lost, we felt like we would have a chance to redeem ourselves. They agreed, and we started another game. I’m not sure which of the two was truly obvious, but either they learned so much from our elite abilities or they were bored and ready for lunch. I still like to think it was the former. Nonetheless, to keep from elaborating upon our sad defeat, they killed us. I’m not sure if either of us even touched the ball that whole game. They had beaten us twelve to zero. Our manhood had been crushed; our egos were in check. Then I said, "My ankle hurts." Brian followed my lead and said, "Yeah, man, my foot still hurts. You know from hittin’ that thing—the other day." I concurred, "And, and—um—I had a headache the whoooole time." "Me too!" Brian exclaimed, "and I was hungry. Not to mention the fact that we drove like eight hours yesterday." "Eight?" I said, " Huh—it was more like ten—or twelve. (Remember—we were just in Kentucky). Oh—and—not to mention—I had YOU on my team! Man, you might has well have gave the guy a boost and a pat on the back on his way to the goal." "ME?" he asked, "I didn’t see YOU do much except eat stuffing the whole time!" "Yeah—well—you wanna go eat? I’m hungry." I said. Brian replied, "Yeah, me too. I bet we can get a good deal down at Burger King with our shaved heads." One time, we decided to drive to Warrior’s Path Park in Kingsport, TN to maybe get in on a pick-up game. We played for a while, and everything seemed to be going ok; but we had a crazy idea: "Let’s go swimming," we thought. The water looked inviting, and we were hot from playing ball; so we did it. We jumped in the river that went around the park. But the water wasn’t as nice as we thought it would be; in fact, it was really cold. So that didn’t last long. We went back to the truck, which Brian had just cleaned, and got some dry clothes. We decided that we’d change into something dry and then leave. The main building on the park was near us, and we knew that there was a bathroom inside; so—no big deal, right? yeah—right. I walked up to the door and pulled. It wouldn’t budge. It was locked. "Oh well," I said, "guess we’ll have to drive back wet." "Oh no we’re not," Brian said with that commanding tone of his, "I just cleaned my truck, and we ain’t gonna get it smellin’ like an ol’ dog!" I thought for a second and asked, "So what the heck are we gonna do—stand out in the middle of the road and change? I know nobody wants to see YOUR hairy butt! You might really damage some young kid if they see that. OR you might get on the six o’clock news as the latest discovery of Bigfoot! Let’s just ride back wet." I laughed. He just looked at me and said, "Funny. If you just pull down your pants, nobody’ll see you ‘cause the hair on your legs will just look like a bush!" Before the imminent argument about bodily fallacies could build up, he laughed and said, "Speaking of bushes…OK, look—you see that bush by the building? Jump behind there, do an ol’ ‘swicharoo’ and I’ll watch for people." "Good enough for me." I said. It worked great. I changed behind the bush, and was now nice and dry. "OK—your turn," I said. Brian jumped behind the bush and reiterated his concern by saying, "Alright now, make sure to tell me if anybody’s coming." I rolled my eyes and said, "OK, OK, OK—I will. Now, hurry up and change." There was a short pause while he looked at me thinking about my history of screwing things up. He said, "You better…" "Alright already," I exclaimed, "Do it!" While he was changing, it dawned on me that I had never followed through with my plan to get him back for the bicycle incident. My mind wandered back to the day of the urine-drenched mattress and Aunt Debbie’s wrath. I thought, "Boy, that would have been perfect had she not ruined the plan." As I was recollecting, I heard people talking. I looked at Brian and saw that he was having a little trouble. "Oh no!" I thought. But then I grinned and thought, "Ooohhh yesss." I just turned around and pretended like I didn’t even know the crazy, naked man in the bushes. You know that moment in elementary school when someone had just done something incredibly funny and it was at the very instant that you had just taken a sip of milk? You had to try with all your might to keep from laughing or else you’d either spit milk out of your nose or just blow it all over the person sitting across from you. Well, it was even harder than that to keep from laughing at this instant. Brian’s bare rear end was just sticking out of the bushes as he hunched down into a semi-fetal position after noticing the oncoming pedestrians. I saw the reflection of one of the ladies in the window and she was trying, just like I was, not to laugh. They passed, and Brian looked at me with disgust. "I’m gonna kill you! Oh man, am I gonna kill you! What happened to…? Dang! Man, I’m gonna kill you!" "What!?" I asked, in my most sarcastic tone. I had been out on my own for a while by the winter of 2003, and a lot of things had changed by that time. But my tendency to mess things up still haunted me (well—those around me anyway). Once again, I recruited Brian to be a part of my mishap. I had visited this local shop that sold retro-type furniture and "antiquy" things, and after about my third visit I had made up my mind; I was going skip the electric bill for a month and buy a sofa from "Flashback Jack’s". I don’t know if it was the rough, houndstooth material covering the two twin beds on wheels or the built in checker/chess board on the top of the corner piece, but "This thing," I thought, "is sweet." I know—it sounds ridiculous; well—it was, but noone could change my mind. I thought it was awesome.. After signing my name to the check, a thought that should have crossed my mind beforehand finally hit me: "How the heck am I gonna get this thing home?" You know, there’s something about owning a sport/utility vehicle that makes even the most timid driver feel as if he can concur the world. "SUV’s" we call them. Just saying, "I drive an SUV" gives a person a sense of pride that they normally wouldn’t have. At the time, I was one of the fortunate few proud to boast, "I drive an S—U—V" But of course, there was a catch. It wasn’t a gas-sucking, mud-eating, take you anywhere your heart desires vehicle; it was a gas-saving, "don’t look at me funny or I’ll cry," Kia Sportage. The thing looks like it was the subject of a bad parallel parking accident between two garbage trucks. Seriously, sometimes when I’m at work, I look down out of the seventh floor window and notice that my "SUV" is definitely the "goose among the ducks"; or the fifth nipple on a cow’s utter. (Sorry—I recently watched the soon to be a classic "Napoleon Dynamite"). My point: the car is a really short four cylinder with absolutely no power at all. Don’t get me wrong; I love the car. I was really excited when I got it. It was the first four-wheel drive vehicle I ever owned. It’s just really short and underpowered. But hey, I got a great deal on it. To go further into the depths of this tangent: there’s something about driving a four-wheel drive vehicle that makes a person feel invincible also. When I first got the car, I decided to take it for a little spin up the frozen-over, snow-burried Viking Mountain. Knowing that he was an excellent driver in the snow, I asked my brother to come along. This wasn’t be cause I felt that I needed his help; oh no—I just wanted to show off my incredible snow-driving skills. The snow was literally knee-deep. We had no trouble at all going up the mountain; it was coming down that presented problems. My brother asked as we started down the mountain, "Now, you know that you have to be really careful going down; it’s a lot harder…" I butted in, "Yeah, yeah—I got it all under…uh oh." Evidently, My haste had gotten the better of me. We slid around a curve and spun around running right into a large bank head on. Now, there would be no humor in this except for the fact that Rodney didn’t plan for such an event. He had left home wearing only overalls (no shirt) and a pair of "Grandma slippers" (no socks). In the knee-deep, freezing snow, we pushed and pulled and threw snow and mud everywhere with the spinning tired, and finally got the car turned in the right direction. After a brief pause he looked at me with a grin and said, "I think we should switch places." "Yeah—me too." I replied. So my point is that my car was just too small to carry the sofa home. I knew that Brian owned a truck, so I discretely asked for his patronage. I think it was something like, "Hey man, what are you doing tonight? Wanna come over and get some food and play some video games?" He answered, "Dude, you don’t even have any furniture." "Oh, but I do. I just got this sweet sofa." I replied. Brian pulled into the parking lot in front of my apartment, and I met him outside. "Let’s go eat," I said. "Ok. Where you wanna go?," he asked. I thought to myself, "ah, this is it; the perfect opportunity." Then I said, "Let’s go to this new place called "Flashback Jack’s"." We pulled up to the front of the store, and I could see the look of suspicion on Brian’s face. "This is it?," he asked. I answered, "Yup, this is the place. You think we can fit it all of in the back of your truck?" Brian asked, "All of what?" "My new sofa. Let’s go. I think it might snow," I said nonchalantly. Brian rolled his eyes and began bickering, "Man, you’re a turd. You didn’t tell me—ah—forget it. Let’s just get this over with." As we were putting the pieces of the gigantic puzzle into the truck, the snow started falling. Evidently, Brian had just come from a workout session at the YMCA or something, because he was wearing shorts and a t-shirt. I started to feel sorry for him, and then I remembered the bicycle incident from years past, and the time he rolled my brother down a large hill in a barrel, and the time he waltzed in our grandparents’ house and pulled a tick off of our cousin’s—unmentionables making him scream out in pain. I also thought back on the time he tried to hang my brother from an old apple tree after watching old roadrunner cartoons, and the feeling went away. I thought, "ah—he deserves it. ha ha." The owner of the store was kind enough to let us have some trash bags to cover some of the cushions. So there we were; wet, cold, smelly, and hungry driving down town with a gigantic, retro couch/double twin bed/chessboard thing in the back of the truck with black trash bags whipping in the wind. We got back to the apartment and unloaded the sofa as quickly as possible in the snow, and I started laughing. Brian looked at me and said, "I should have known better. It’s always something. I mean, dang, what should I expect from a guy who can’t even do the hokey pokey without breaking something" (Once we recited the "Hokey Pokey" for my baby niece for about a solid hour. The finale consisted of me running down the hallway, back into the living room, jumping over ottoman, and crashing into the ceiling fan). I replied, "Well, hey—we’ve got somewhere to sleep now." We both stood there looking at this hideous thing dripping wet in the middle of the living room for a few long seconds. Then I asked, "Hey, let’s go eat. By the way, can I borrow some money?" "Idiot," he abruptly stated. So, yeah—I think that, from now on, instead of "yes" or "OK", it’ll be "aye, aye, Captain." when I answer Brian. I mean, it’s the least I could do; to pay respect to the most vulnerable victim of my recklessness by giving him the title he deserves. Through all of life’s ongoing changes, one thought continues to cross the minds of those around me as well as my own: some things never change. -dj January 2005 |