Come to Think of it, My Brother John is Kind of a Jerk
My brother John and I have been talking about our childhood lately, and these reminiscences have brought to mind two games that we used to play as kids.
Some kids played school, or freeze tag, or capture the flag. My three siblings and I played games comprised of fear and torture. The first memory I have is the threat of “burning your tires.” This nightmare game was played on bikes. The object was to ride up behind the victim and run your front tire against their back one, causing a smell of burning rubber. The ultimate goal of this game was to cause the other person to crash.
My brother John burned my tires mercilessly. There I would be, riding gaily down the sidewalk on my pink banana seat Schwinn, listening to a Disney tape that I had in a portable cassette player in the basket of my bike, when John would come out of nowhere to burn my tires. I never knew he was there until he was about fifteen feet away, and by then it was too late. In nervous terror I would look over my shoulder and there he was, with his growth stunted legs pumping those pedals (so help me God, he reached speeds of thirty miles an hour), hellbent on catching me. “Better ride faster, I’m gonnnnnnnnnna get you,” he taunted, knowing full well that I couldn’t out run him. Two seconds later came the burn. Or should I say the first burn, seeing as how he would draw it out and burn my tires, then hang back only to charge forward and burn them again and again. This game became especially horrific once I got my ten speed, which had thin tires that just fit in the edging between the sidewalk and the grass. This meant if you didn’t remain in absolute control of the bike when burned, your tire would get stuck in the crack, resulting in a catastrophic crash. That I was thirteen by then made it all the worse.
The second game I remember was played at my dad’s law office, where he would drag us on Saturday mornings and then leave us to our own devices. Here’s how that game went: We turned off the lights in the law library which, having no windows, was pitch black, and shuffled across the floor with the objective of building up enough static electricity of shock the crap out of each other. My sister and I were impatient, and shocked within ten seconds of static build up but my brothers took their time. John was the most terrifying because he would shuffle for twenty minutes before blasting one of us. We wouldn’t hear from him for a while, but you knew he was out there, building up enough static electricity to reach almost electrocution levels. The longer he was unheard from, the scarier it got–wait a minute, has anyone been shocked by John lately? F! (only we were little so we probably said something like AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! or Holy Shit!)– until you were hit with a bolt of blue electricity that would light up the room. And that is why I stutter. Thanks, John. Jerk.
My-mind-wanders-and-so-these-might-be-related Posts
When the Outside Comes In
Just Barely Best Friends
Regarding the Easter Bunny
Hmmm….intersting that the one who is at least a foot taller than the rest of us should be accussing me of anything other than self-defense! Don’t even get me started on those razor sharp fingernails; I still can’t believe that Homeland Security lets you on an airplane with your stealthy ninja fingernails. Yeah that’s right Ninja Fingernails!
I also suspect that some of your anger has to do with the fact that I refused to join any of your “clubs” for dues-paying siblings and neighborhood children. Even AIG and Citigroup would be interested in your business model; in fact, didn’t you sell the Rizzi girls a mortgage for their tree-house not to mention Abby’s dollhouse home equity line of credit!?
Uh oh, somebody’s jealous of my early investment skills. One $4 bag of trinkets from the craft store quickly turns into $40 when used as prizes to entice people to join my club for the bargain enrollment fee of $10. I have a feeling there’s another story coming out of this one. Do you want to write it, or should I?
Regarding the wolverine nails–they were only used to maul you ONCE, and that was an act of self defense on MY PART as you were trying to throw me down the attic stairs during the battle of the thumb tack–proving, once again, that you’re kind of a jerk.
These must all be lies Amy. John is one of the greatest growth stunted men I know
Steve, you are the other, followed closely by Gary Coleman.
Don’t forget about her scary elbows. I am frightened by them and there are miles between us!
Nancy, you know I only use my perposterously sharp elbows for good–and cutting glass–, not evil.