Throughout our childhood lots of people come in and out of our lives. Some we get along with and they may consider us friends, some just become cordial acquaintances, and then there are some who may take a little extra joy in making our lives a living hell. Society has labeled these kids bullies. There is the neighborhood bully, playground bully, nowadays there are even online bullies. Ladies and gentlemen I am here to tell you none of these bullies even remotely compare to the bullying you were exposed to if you had an older sibling!
“INTRODUCING THE CHALLENGER!”: As a young 9 year old, I was not blessed with the finest of genetics. I was lazy, no athletic ability, I had the good fortune of a being 30 lbs. overweight, a tight kinky afro 3 sizes too big for my head, and to top this total package off a perfect set of pointy little boy B cup boobies. I was addicted to television and the TV Guide we received once per week in the mail was my day planner. Yes, I would schedule my day around what was on TV. Summer was the best! Breakfast, snacks, lunch, snacks, snacks, and more snacks were consumed in front of the TV in our basement all in the comfort of my plush, form fitting beanbag. I knew what was on at what time and would stock up on provisions, which usually consisted of sweet cereal, sleeves of Saltines, my mother worked for our school district she would bring home Drake’s cakes in abundance, Ring Dings, Yodels, Devil Dogs, this was when they were wrapped individually in the aluminum foil, I would always have a supply by my side and wash all this down with rust colored powdered sugar water that the stores used to pass off as Iced Tea.
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN MAKING HIS WAY TO THE RING… THE CHAMPION, SEAN!”: On the other side of the squared circle we had my 12 year old brother Sean. He was six feet tall at 12, cool hair, slim as a rail, athletic, perfect “chicano” top lip mustache that all the kids in the late 1970’s wanted. His day consisted of arguing with my mom about having to come inside. He would wake at the crack of dawn and we would not see him until dinner time. He was an elite athlete at 12 years old, but his calling in life came to fruition in the form of wiffle ball. He could throw a 90 mph wiffle ball with a curve that looked like it was being thrown at the next door neighbors house only to have the ball swerve into the “strike zone” which was just a square panel on the garage door. He would spend 8 hours per day with our neighbor Kevin in our driveway smacking homeruns, which was determined if you hit the house across the street. The elderly couple who lived there had no idea what was intermittently pelting their house everyday!
My brother and I were, to say the least quite opposite.
On occasion my mother would have enough of me always sitting in my bean bag, surrounded by carbs and rust color sugar water. It was usually when my stepdad pointed out I had not seen daylight in 2 weeks. It would be at this point my mom would click the downstairs light on and off causing me temporary blindness, while calling my name “Bret…” I would make believe I did not hear her only to be met with a louder more stern “BRET!” “Whhhaaaat??” I would whine. “Come take out the garbage!” I would look at the TV confused while Gilligan was causing all kinds of chaos on the island, and would respond to my mother “ME?” as if she made an error assigning this task, to which she would respond “GET YOUR ASS UP HERE AND TAKE OUT THIS GARBAGE!” I would look at the TV as I tried to teeter myself out of the beanbag and mutter “I wish I was on an island like you Gilligan!”
Taking out the garbage took preparation for me. I would have to mentally and physically prepare to take the verbal assault all while moving my pudgy frame as quick as possible. Our garbage can was on the side of the driveway, next to the garage. I would look out the window to see if the wiffle ball world series was going on, once I confirmed and whimpered it was still in full swing I would take a deep breath and exit the front door.
As a 9 year old who’s imagination was molded by endless hours of television, I was determined that if I held the bag in front of me it would be like a cloak of invisibility. Reality bites quick, the first step out of the door I was met with “Oh, look who came out of his cave, what’d you lose the TV guide.” I would walk down the sidewalk and steps, my brother at the end of the driveway, ball in hand. I would enter the active field of play, both players staring at me as I pressed my chubby self against the retention wall that lined the driveway to make myself as “small” as possible to avoid game play interference and deflect their verbal assault. I lift the lid to the garbage can go to put the bag in, when I hear “get off the field dick!” accompanied was the sound of whistling and the instant sting as I was peppered by a 90 mph wiffle ball to the middle of my back.
Now, my brother and Kevin whipped the wiffle ball at each other all day, they would take pitches to the thighs, back, faces, etc… pick up the ball throw it back and get right back in play. I was delicate, my body was not made of lean muscle that came from exertion and activity, my body was made up of Saltines and Ring Dings. My body was not equipped to take a wiffle ball to the back, this just did not occur when your day is spent sitting in bean bag!
I digress. In what seemed like slow motion, I spun around, in my field of vision as I spin, I see Kevin on the ground laughing. My mouth in a paralyzed open gasp, as my fat back and brain attempt to comprehend what just occurred and the slight stinging…I mean unfathomable pain shooting up my spine! I see my brother, staring at me with his chicano mustache and snickering smile, and in front of me I see the WMD, (wiffleball of mass destruction.) In one swift move surprising myself how nimble I was, my eyes glazed over in rage, I stomp on the wiffle ball, cracking it in an irreparable, unusable mound of plastic!
As a 9 year old, out of shape, kinky curly afro haired, B cup sized titted little boy, stuffed with crackers and ring dings, who just defended himself against a missile launched attack from your 12 year old alpha male brother. My imagination took over and we declared victory, I was the defender of all bullied younger siblings. I had taken a stand and won! Until the 3 most terrifying words ever muttered by an older sibling were muttered by my brother...”YOU BETTER RUN!” Quickly snapped back into reality, and by the look on my brothers face, I rapidly began to map my escape. I had 10 feet from the garbage can to the 4 steps to the sidwalk, 15 feet from the sidewalk to the 4 steps to safety where my mother would be able to hear my screams of “SAVE ME!” Sean starts his doomsday countdown “10, 9, 8…” I take off full speed, which was by best comparison equivalent to a snail, riding a slug trying to escape a French chef. As I lump my way up the steps
“7, 6, 5…” half way across the sidewalk, I look over my shoulder Sean is in the same spot at the end of the driveway, my sanctuary in site, a few more feet to the last 4 steps “4, 3, 2…” I lift my foot to hit the first step I hear “1!”
I am not certain how he did it, my assumption is my parents gave birth to some new form of a hybrid predator that took the form of a six foot, 12 year old, but as my foot was in the air heading towards the first step, Sean who was a good 25 feet away from me, leapt up the hill that was our front yard, landed directly behind me and repeated “YOU BETTER RUN!”
Instead of continuing up the stairs to safety in hopes my mother would hear me being murdered, terror took over and I decided to run around the side of the house towards the backyard in hopes to outrun this hybrid apex predator! As I flee once again, I look back, Phew! He is letting me go, if I can make it to the backyard 15 more feet I will be in the main yard and mom will see me, I will be safe! I was just rounding the back corner of the house, I can see safety, hear my mom singing through the open window, when I feel long fingers grab a hold of my afro, pulling me off my feet onto my back. I lay in the grass, winded, sun in my eyes, hovering over me is the chicano mustached predator!
I yell, winded and exhausted from running 20 feet “I am going to tell mom!” My imagination taking over as my brother snickers and says in a 19th Century English super villains voice “Mother can not help you little brother!” My mind playing tricks on me due to the exhaustion this 5 minutes of terror has caused me. I am hallucinating my brother is in a vest with our family crest on it, him pulling a silver knife he used to slay our father out of his riding boot, the knife encrusted with the jewels from our fathers crown! I snap back to reality and realize this reality is worse there hovering over me is my brother in his filthy Rush shirt, jean cutoffs our mother cut too short, I am staring up at one of his testicles sticking out because the shorts do not fit right! I scream, don’t stab me! He says in his choppy pubescent voice “Stab, you, you’re not getting off that easy, I have something worse for you!” My brother proceeds to pull out a gigantic handful of dried leaves and proceeds to shovel them in my mouth! SIDE-NOTE: Our lawn was impeccable. Our stepfather was impeccably neat, he was the Sheriff of smudges and carried a holster with cleaning products in it to thwart them. The only thing he was more obsessed about than clean windows was the damn lawn. The fact that my brother had a handful of dried leaves when I can assure there was never a leaf allowed to trespass on our lawn leads me to believe he hoarded these leaves during the fall season to use at a later date as an instrument of torture and force me to consume.
As quickly as the dry leaf attack started was as quickly as it was over, in my mind it lasted for hours, but it was mere seconds. My brother disappears in a predatory cat like leap, I proceed to spit out the residuals of the foliage attack, while simultaneously clearing the tears that are stinging my eyes, when from the porch window, not ten feet from the scene, just out of sight from where I paid my penance for destroying the possibly game winning ball of the World Series of wiffleball I hear my mother, she leans through the window, unaware of the carnage and proceeds to scold me “Get off the lawn and clean up those leaves Vinny mowed the lawn yesterday AND come inside, its 9am I have to leave and don’t want you and your brother fighting!” I stand, straighten my tight shirt, wipe down my adult size sweat pants, realign my B cups, pick up the leaves, fluff the indentation of my body and walk inside…it’s 9am, Tom and Jerry is on.
#Adulting 