There’s no easy way to tell if he was going to say “brother” or leave it at “bro,” as Chris is now leaning over the side of his lawn chair, vomiting.
“That’s just spectacular,” I tell him. “Really, it’s great of you to drop in and make yourself at home.” I sigh. “How many times are we going to do this, huh?” I ask.
Chris looks up at me and opens his mouth, taking a quick breath in as if he’s about to say something, but quickly returns his head over the side of the lawn chair to make sure there isn’t anything left to throw up.
I make my way over to the faucet just outside the back door and I grab the end of the hose attached to it before turning the faucet on.
“You’re probably going to want to move if you don’t want to get soaked and have to sleep outside,” I tell him.
He doesn’t react at first, but after I give him a quick spray with the hose, he moves quickly enough, though he only makes it to the lawn chair I’ve just abandoned to clean up after him. If ever there was a clearer living metaphor for my relationship to my brother than this single moment, I’ve never seen it.
After I get the concrete cleaned, I set the hose back down and turn off the faucet.
“Feeling any better?” I ask him.
“I feeel great,” he tells me. “Hey bro?” he says.
“What?” I respond.
“Got anything to drink? I’m havvinng a rough night,” he says.
It’s a testament to my incredible self-control that I’ve never beaten the crap out of my brother.
* * *
Morning comes and I’m sitting in the kitchen with my coffee, just waiting to see which version of my brother greets me today.
I like to think Chris is a decent guy if you look past all the cons and swindles, the pyramid schemes and the fake lottery tickets. There’s also that fake ID scam he ran a few years back, but his computer guy had trouble with simple math and often ended up making people younger on their ID than they were in real life.
Under all that, I like to think his heart is in the right place. I like to think it, but that doesn’t mean I’m naïve enough to believe it.
“Hey bro,” Chris says, coming into the kitchen. “I think I remember throwing up on your back porch last night. Did I?”
“Yeah,” I tell him.
“Sorry,” he says. “I guess I got a little carried away.”
I’m waiting for the sales pitch.
He’s taking his time, though, slowly walking past me toward the coffee maker. “Where do you keep your mugs?” he asks.
“Top cabinet to the left of the stove,” I tell him. “How long are you planning to stay here this time?”
“Straight to business, huh?” he says, reaching into the cupboard and pulling down a mug.
Chris is what I’d look like if I stopped going to the gym and started going to the bar, plus a few years. My shoulders are broader, and I’
m a few inches taller at 5’9”, but we’ve both got the same dirty blond hair and the same perma-smirk on our mouths from years of listening to parents make promises we knew they’d never keep.
Every time he shows up, I keep telling myself that I’ve got to keep going along with it, that I should kick him out or call the cops or something. I can never bring myself to do it.
When we were younger, though, he really looked out for me.
Coming from the particularly dysfunctional background that I do, I was an easy target for some of the larger kids in class. For years, though, Chris always had my back. I still got the crap kicked out of me on a pretty regular basis, but Chris took a lot of punches so I wouldn’t have to.
After he dropped out and moved out, though, I had to learn how to take care of myself, hence…
“We can’t keep doing this,” I tell him. “You’re my brother, but I think I’ve been more than patient—”