Spud
My little brother, alias: Spud (his own creation) came barging into my apartment one day, fully aware of my time-saving habit of not locking the front door (but meticulously checking the handle of the bathroom- twice, before doing my business), ran to the kitchen, light-up L.A. Gear's slapping against the cold hardwood flooring, LEDs flashing in time to the movement of his tendons. Face flushed, he approached me in the kitchen, rocking back and forth: heel, toe, heel, toe, mouth clenched to form a barricade of SWAT team teeth behind which endless hours of little boy stories were dying to escape. His eyes were wide, waiting for me to say hello or let the slightest semblance of a word- letter, even- escape as a result of unintentional vocal chord vibration, thus not breaking the do-not-speak-unless-spoken-to rule that three years of Catholic school had embedded in his cranial folds.
I stopped stirring figure eights into the pot of boiling noodles long enough to grab him under the armpits, holding him tight against my soft, full stomach, careful not to squeeze too hard, less a steady diet of macaroni and cheese, hot dogs, Lucky Charms, and Lunchables would make itself known all over my counter tops. The macaroni and cheese would be from me, as I suffer from a stinginess that brings me to eat multiple boxes of the stuff in the span of one week (the third of which, in this particular seven day period, was currently bubbling about on the stove). "Mac and cheese! That's my favorite! When I move out, that's all I'm gonna eat!" I was snapped into a nauseating case of deja vu, the ten year-old me, Kraft Nostradamus, expressing the same sentiment to my mother. I ruffled his hair and told him about the food groups, none of which included cheese of the dried-out, astronaut-like variety. Besides, the heart attack for dinner lifestyle was not nearly as glamorous as the company would have you believe via hyped-up slogans. Not once did Shrek-shaped pasta ever "get my noodle going." In fact, I felt a little trippy every time I stared at my fork and tried to decipher which character I would soon after ingest, and after unconsciously consuming the entire contents of the box, the carbohydrate bonanza in my stomach prevented me from doing little more than clicking up or down on the remote.
I pulled a styrofoam container out of the fridge in hopes of providing my brother with something of nutritional value. Inside was a western omelet which had long since lost its moisture content, but I reasoned that the vegetables were still edible.
"Hey Spud, pick the onions and peppers out of here, okay?" His fingers dug through the egg like machinery at an excavation site, quickly tossing bits of vegetables into his special Batman bowl that he had chosen when we went to the Dollar Emporium last week. He had hidden it behind his back and skirted the question of whether I'd be willing to shell out a Washington for his happiness. I had bought the bowl and the matching tumbler, which I filled with fruit punch. I sat across the table from him, peering over the latest issue of Good Housekeeping, watching the mechanical bend of his elbow, raising the spoon to his mouth, and the subsequent gorging. It's funny: were he a few years older, he'd tell me to cut it out. He'd know my magazine was just a front based on the disarray of my living space. Martha Stewart in jail would be able to make an afghan out of dust and hair in about the amount of time it would take me to properly execute the tucking of hospital corners.
Fork halfway back to the bowl to scrape the three remaining noodles from the bottom, his eyes peered up at my literary selection. "Good Housekeeping? What the hell---" His mouth froze in place, halfway between the last syllable of the offending word and the first syllable of the next. Between his parted lips, I could see a piece of green bell pepper lingering on his tongue like the tension in the air. I saw his eyes grow so wide they took up about a third of his head and all the blood drained from his face down into the tips of his toes. I couldn't help but let a laugh escape. His mouth closed slowly, uncertainly, one eyebrow raised in confusion. Between laughs and gasps for air, I managed to ask him what he thought I might have done to him. "You could have drop-kicked me in the face or bicycle-kicked me in the stomach, I don't know!" His answer wasn't so peculiar. We both have an affinity for playing Mortal Kombat on the Genesis set up in my living room until his player (usually Sub-Zero) stops moving and I know he's fallen asleep.
"Spud, Spud, Spud. What am I gonna do with you?" I popped him on top of the head with the still-damp wooden spoon and decided to forgo doing the dishes for a couple rounds of virtual annihilation.
____________________________________
I plop down on the sofa after half-dragging, half-carrying Spud (as his body was limp with the dead-weight of sleep) to my bed where I always let him sleep when he visited. We had bought a package of glow-in-the-dark stars a while back, and he laid looking up at the ceiling directing their placement. By the time we were done, he had me spell out "SPUD"- his very own New York City constellation. I didn't bother explaining to him that seeing stars through the city's smog was like trying to read size 6 font through a sheet of Jell-O. The bubble surrounding his perfect little eight year-old world was far too fragile to withstand harsh realities.
___________________________________
Careful to avoid the popped coils in the cushions, I position myself just so, contorting myself into a shape almost reminiscent of the number three. America's Most Wanted is still on and I imagine how exciting my life would be if I gave the sole incriminating tip. Every Saturday night I pray someone recognizable pop on my television screen. I want to have been the co-worker of Juan Sanchez (now Rudy Valentino) who's wanted for stealing kittens and selling them illegally in Peru in exchange for crystal meth. I want to be the ex-girlfriend of Joe Smith who has a mole in the shape of Texas on his right shoulder blade and enjoys taking photographs of the Girl Scouts' "cookies." I could be on AMW right now, shaking John Walsh's hand. He would be calling me a hero and telling America that they too can be just like me. But for three long years of unwavered dedication, the only things I recognize are the jingles during commercial breaks and the indentations my body has made in the couch.
No comments:
Post a Comment