CHAPTER TWO
My Brothers
My brothers were both considered "good Kids" by societal standards, being law-abiding, and generally speaking, parent-abiding as well. However, blood relationships do not guarantee a likeness of character or form, and so it was with Norm and Todd. They looked nothing alike, facially or otherwise. Norm was muscular, with unstoppable health, while Todd was taller, thin, and prone to allergies. Apart from such obvious dissimilarities their personalities and interests also differed greatly. Such differences rarely evoked conflict, though, because they were on wholly separate planes. Norm and Todd were not incompatible in an obnoxious sense; they merely followed their own dreams. A coincidence of their respected circles of interest occurred mainly through their great love—and respect—for nature; thanks to Dad. They also shared a consuming interest in the chug and maintenance of the woodland trails and bridges on which they would ride. Basically, though, Norm and Todd were as different as apples and oranges. My memories of and love for each of my brothers varied greatly from the other, and changed with the passage of time, for I, as well as they, underwent transitional phases. Thus, as characters were modified and outlooks were altered, relationships, also, transformed through the years.
My fondest memories of Todd, who bested Norm by roughly three years, were those of our early interactions. Todd had a wonderful ability to entertain children. He seemed to sense the exact type of gesture and manner of conversation which enthralled a young audience, and as a result, was rarely able to rest once a child noticed this value. He possessed an unbelievable attention span and tolerance for a child's endless and often irrational demands.
I found Todd to be an inexhaustible source of amusement, as he was quite adept at conjuring up names and personalities for my motley array of stuffed animals. He would then provide an endless flow of nonsensical banter for the animal of my choosing, which delighted and held captive my attention for countless hours on end.
I had two favorites, the first of which was an alligator; Todd would shake the green amphibious creature, emit a gravel-throated roar, and proceed to chase me about the house until I could no longer escape and irreversibly served as the alligator's dinner.
The second was a beloved bear whose eyes were so asymmetrically adhered to its face that it appeared to be immersed in a drunken stupor. Todd christened the bear "Coors Bear" in reference to the beer of the same name, and projected its character as that of a bum in desperate need of another drink. He would make the bear twitch and shake with obvious delirium moaning simultaneously, "Whe'm I?….Whe'm I?" This would continue unless the bear was administered an ample swig of Coors beer from a small bottle; the bear was then content to laze back into a dream-like sleep.
Both of my brothers teased me. It was the inevitable result of being the youngest member of the family and, of course, the least educated and self-sufficient of the entire group. They were not ruthless in their teasing; they never insulted my intelligence, only my ignorance, which was not as serious since ignorance could be reversed in due time. I felt transparent; they seemed to know what would bother me, from my petty insecurities to faulty rationalization.
I well remember the family excursions, in which I generally sat in the back seat between Norm and Todd. Like clock work, they would serenade to me in unison, "Souvenir, bathroom, bottle-of-pop" while we drove past the flat and blistering hot corn fields toward our destination, claiming that these were my three favorite aspects of the summer vacation; I would seethe and boil, but could do nothing, as I fully realized that they were probably right.
They would also grab Coors Bear, and, holding him at an arm's length out of the window while traveling 70 miles per hour, threaten to throw him into the fields. I panicked at the possibility, my eyes fixed on the battered bear as the wind fiercely buffeted its floppy arms and legs. The bear was always hoisted back into the car after an ample display of hostility from me and never suffered the cruel injustice. (Coors bear was eventually disposed of in the garbage can, a more humiliating, but less violent, retirement.)