Weekend Assignment #25

Weekend Assignment #25: Share a favorite story that features you and a sibling. For those of you that are an only child, you can substitute a cousin or a best friend.

 

Ah, just what I wanted to do. Conjure up some bad memories about all the teasing and trauma of being the youngest in my family. Are these supposed to be good stories? Ones that will make you shed a tear at the end ala` The Brady Bunch? This is not that kind of story. In fact, These stories may explain why I turned out the way I did. Messed up.

Picture it---a brisk evening in dismal Upstate NY in 1989. (Hey, I'm assuming it's brisk. It always is.) Pan in through the livingroom window, witness 3 small children playing on the floor, while the male parental unit reads "Automotive News" in the recliner in the corner. The other female parental unit can be heard singing "Kokomo" while doing the dishes in the kitchen. A twelve-year old boy can be seen playing "Pinbot" on the old-school, but then brand-spanking new Nintendo Gamesystem. A four year old girl is sitting on his back. A six year old girl is coloring in the corner, by herself for the reason being she is a tempermental beast of a child (some things never change.) I am the four year old.

In a moment of pure insanity, I am lured by the brown spokes of hair that cover my brother's head. I am fascinated simply because I did not have hair at the age of four. Yes, it's true. I went to kindergarten nearly bald. I looked like a cabbage patch doll. Anyhow, I run my little fingers up through his scalp and begin pulling the little wisps that were softer than they appeared to be! Oh, how fun! I thought to myself and began going crazy with glee in a pulling frenzy. And then it hit me.

His elbow, that is. Right in the stomach. I gasped, losing my breath. I stood up, quiety and walked away. And passed out in a nearby corner.

 KNOCKNICAL TECHOUT!

 

It wasn't until my mother ran from the kitchen, hands still soapy from the dishes, and started screaming at my brother. She ran over to me and scooped me up in her arms and hugged me until I opened my eyes. I looked around and saw this as an opportunity for revenge. After a moment of silence, I let out a shrill scream of agony. After all, I was dying.

I cried for the rest of the night. I got to stay up late and watch "Jake and the Fatman" with my parents and eat peanut butter and jelly into the wee hours of morning. Or until 10:30. Whichever.

Story #2:   New York style cHiPs

When my sister and I were younger, we'd patrol the neighborhood cHiPs style on our Huffy 10 speeds, making vroom vroom noises to get the same effect of Ponch and John's kickass motorcycles. We pedaled as fast as we could to catch the "Sticky Bandits" every morning after we stopped for our donuts and slush puppies at the corner store. (I know what you are thinking. "Sticky Bandits" are the bad guys from Home Alone. We knew that too. We were unoriginal. We called ourselves Helmet Heads. Give us a break.) Anyhow, we carried around our little walkie-talkies, and dispatched each other from our undisclosed locations. (i.e. the backyard. the bathroom. the playground. Grandma's house.) I remember once when we were on a really big chase, the Sticky Bandits almost within our reach, my sister fell off her motorcycle. (Huffy.) She dispatched me promptly, reporting her whereabouts, her injuries and that she's "stuck in a ditch, keep going."

And that's what I did.