Brotherly love

With my hands tied behind my back, blood streaming from my chin, and a knife lying close by, I saw my mother walk into the room. Through the tears then and the years now, I can still see her expression of disbelief at the scene. The questions flew. Everyone was moving. Action was taken. I could now feel my hands being untied and the blood rushing into them. Mother came over with a towel to stop the flow of blood issuing onto the hardwood floor. There was already a pool of the red liquid hardening there. As she was spouting off commands to Paul, my brother, she went outside and started the car. I remember the feeling of being lifted into his arms and carried off to the backseat of our '74 Buick. I can still see the remorse in his eyes and the contempt too. "It's all my fault Momma," is what I still hear after all these years.

My earliest memory of Paul and I was on the front lawn of 6507 Premier Dr. in Nashville, TN. That was my first home. It was a warm sunny day and we were enjoying being outside. We were both sitting in an old green and white chaise lounge chair; the kind that was prevalent in the 70's with fibered polyester strands wound together into a suitable resemblance of luxury for the great outdoors. He was reading to me at the ripe age of 5. I don't recall the title but I remember listening attentively. I knew I had to be 5 because we moved across town the following year where I was to start attending 1st grade. That is a fond memory when I looked up to my big brother.

Paul was also sadistic at times. I think most older brothers are. He did things purely out of spite. I know he did! As a pastor now, he regrets the grievances he bestowed upon me but always recalls them with a chuckle. There were times when he would hold me down on the floor with my hands under his knees. Then he would make me smell the reek that emanated from his recently removed shoe. As I held my breath, knowing what was to come, he would simply smile in anticipation of my 1st inhale of that odoriferous poison that would choke me to tears. After some time had passed; my temper abated; his goal accomplished; we would play a game or watch TV as if nothing had ever happened.

That is not to say that I didn't have my revenge. After one such occasion of my nasal passages being assaulted, this time not just with shoes but stinky, smelly socks as well, I retrieved the longest and sharpest pieces of cutlery I could find. I cornered Paul in the kitchen. I recall the look in his eyes as I slowly moved the blade closer and closer to his stomach. Had he pushed me too far? He began to suck in his gut. I edged the knife a little further. He withdrew his stomach as far as he could. When he could go no further I said, "Don't ever do that to me again!" I hoped I had made my point clear. I put the knife away and that, as they say, was that. I knew the possible consequences of such an action though and sure enough, before a month had passed, I was held down again for yet another round of torment.

This brings me back to when Paul and I had just finished watching a TV show in the living room espousing the feats of The Great Houdini, the magician of our time. He was world renowned and could accomplish impossible tasks. I was 10 at the time and commented that I could beat such odds as those presented by the master escapist. Paul smiled and said, "Prove it." With a feeling of uncertainty in my gut I replied, "Tie me up."

I'm sorry to interrupt my story just now but I have to let you in on a piece of information that I had learned from my brother David. It's quite relevant. David is a few years older than Paul and had his nose broken once. I remember his retelling of how the doctor had to reset his nose with a pair of pliers while the attending nurse secured his hands on the examination table. It wasn't a pleasant story.

I told Paul,"Bind my ankles together and my wrists behind my back." That was the way Houdini did it. As he scanned the room for a suitable restraint, his eyes rested upon my discarded blue plaid robe from the morning. As I saw him retract the cloth belt from what I normally looked forward to donning everyday, I felt ill. I felt him secure my feet. My hands were brought behind me and tied. After he checked the knots for slippage, I was left to perform my miracle of escape. He crossed the room and sat down on the couch to watch and finish eating a recently sliced tomato. Standing upright in our living room I writhed, squirmed, and wiggled. I knew I could untie those knots or at least loosen them enough to free myself. It was during one of those wiggle fests when I noticed my balance had begun to falter. I tried to stabilize myself but that's rather difficult with your hands and feet tied. I started falling forward seeing the hardwood floors coming up to meet me. I remembered David's broken nose and didn't want to share his experience. All I could think of was 'stick out your chin,' and that's exactly what I did. That's when mom walked in the front door after a hard day's work.

I received 5 stitches in my chin that day. The mark is still there although you can't see it through this manly beard I have now.

I think there is some truth in what my father use to say, “There’s a monkey inside every boy.” Boys do silly things and as far as that goes, men do too. Women shouldn’t feel at a quandary as to why men do what they do. Sometimes, we don’t know either. We just act on compulsion. Something drives us. I just hope it’s not the monkey doing the driving.