My sister's point of view

Friday, June 5, 2009

my brother, the junkie

I idolize my brother. Born almost ten years before me, he put my parents through everything; he exposed them to tricks, made up grandiose tales, and otherwise ruined any chance I had for ever pulling a fast one over on them. With an IQ of a genius, Brother, that's how I call him, follows in the footsteps of our father when it comes to cognitive capabilities.

I've heard stories of his taking apart radios, televisions, bicycles, motorcycles, and any assortment of other mechanical or electrical devices as a youngster, reassembling them without so much as flinching. By high school, he'd had and either torn apart or disassembled and reconfigured half a dozen vehicles. And he always had the bad ones. If they weren't bad when my father bought them, they certainly were by the time Brother was finished with them. In the 80's, in beach city Florida, having a Camaro or Mustang or Chevy truck lowered two-inches from the ground was about as bad as one could get. The lucky little sister, I was routinely dumped out at the front door of my grade school in a modified vehicle having, how do you say, unique add-ons such as suicide doors or Delorian-style doors. Painted black or blue with sparkly glitter (although he'd call it by the official name, of which glitter is most certainly not a part), or bright yellow, his vehicles were known throughout the neighborhood...just as well as his lead foot.

You see, Brother is what they call, a junkie. He's a speed demon, an adrenaline seeker, a fiend for a rush. My first ride on the back of a motorcycle was with Brother, of course. There was no one else I trusted at age 15 to put me on the back of a Ducati. In fact, I don't think I even trusted him once we topped 100mph. Sport bikes, jet skis, speedboats, race cars, airplanes, if it had speed, he had one, bought one, "found" one, borrowed one, ran one, or otherwise somehow made his way in or on one. Often. He's biked with top speed through mountain ranges and boated over treacherous waters for no reason other than to feel the blood pump through his veins. He's parachuted over a hundred times. He's raced sports cars, stock cars, funny cars and hot rods in two dozen countries. He's traveled the world in search of the best high. We are not so different, my brother and I.

Since the death of our father, he and I have found it necessary to build a relationship. The age difference, the miles between, the different life paths, and the both of us less caring about familial relations than others we know, are reasons that have, heretofore, left us simply passing messages through our mother.

Brother had a heart attack two years ago. He called me at work from the hospital and I immediately began to sob. Right there, at my desk. Not long ago he called me. In a bad way. He was tired, afraid, unsure, and with his back against a wall. He called me. For this. He reached out to his little sister in his time of need. I've been there before and simply suggested that he get back on the proverbial sport bike. And he did. We are not so different, my brother and I. Yet another reason, my brother is, has been, and will always be, my Number One.

He recently turned 41. I wanted to go parachuting for his birthday. My first time. Maybe next year.