by Jon Sindell
turned away from me, and it was obvious they’d decided I didn’t exist. So I decided to just sit there and let them do the talking; but after about fifteen minutes during which there was no conversation except for a few words about what they would steal next, and Rafi saying, “The new Captain Crunch commercial stinks,” I nodded at Mike, who ignored me, and slunk away, knowing Mike would probably never make eye contact with me in school again.
“Your brother wants to see you,” my mom said that night. That made my heart leap. Ever since he had moved out of our bedroom and into the backyard play room in tenth grade, the only times I saw him were the occasional family meal and when his TV was broken. And now that he was going away to college, the times would be fewer still.
“Like them?” he smiled. He’d noticed that I was staring at his new wire frames.
“Yeah! Definitely. Now all the people I like best wear glasses. Morty, Susie, and you. You look like John Boy Walton.”
“That’s strange,” he said, “since you’re the writer in the family. C’mere.” He reached for a stack of papers he’d pulled from his closet while packing. “It’s my copy of the mag you and Morty did in sixth grade. Damn, it’s funny! Autograph it for me?”
It was the most sentimental I’d seen him in all my thirteen years, but I guess you only go off to college once. “Sure!” I said. “Hey, speaking of stories, I’ve been up to some interesting stuff lately.” I told him about the rooftop mountaineering, and the accidental rescue of Mrs. Jordan’s cat, and the salt shaken all over Susie’s dad’s eggs. He look at me with an expression which, I knew from long experience, meant bemused disapproval. “Isn’t that sort of a waste of time?” he said. Waste of time? Waste of time? Wasn’t this the guy whose footsteps I’d followed up onto those dangerous rooftops? Weren’t those his pranks I had pulled off with perfect fidelity, costing me Susie’s approval? Did I know this guy, this long, lean impersonator of my once cool big brother? Who was this guy?
“Got a surprise,” this guy said.
“Yeah?” I said coldly. “What?” He flipped the tickets down on the desk. Monterey Jazz Fest, me and him, a three-day stop on his way up to college. “Hm, that’s alright,” I said, not knowing anything about jazz except that my big brother liked it, and that it was jazz sax wafting from his backyard room when his twelfth grade friends would stay past midnight playing poker and darts. “Yeah–that’s alright.” Three-hundred miles up the coast in his convertible two-seater, then two days in San Francisco. “Very alright.” Damn, I was giving in easy. `Waste of time,’ he’d said. `Waste of time.’ I fought to stay cool. Five days together, just me and my bro, cruising in the sunshine, blasting the radio, shooting the breeze–who knew what? “Yeah, that’s alright, bro–very alright. All right! All ... riiiight!”
~ end ~
Thank you for reading “Kool Brother Rat.” If you enjoyed this free ebook, please do share it. “Like” it, too, if you have a spare moment, and please consider reviewing the tale. For more of my short fiction, and other literary goodies, please visit Jon Sindell Fiction. You may also want to check out The Mighty Roman, “a fast, funny, thought–provoking novel about baseball and the modern American man.” Finally, please feel free to connect with me on Facebook, on Goodreads, or via email to [email protected], as I love connecting with readers. Coooool.
