City of Brotherly Shove

I have two brothers. Mike is the older, Joe is the younger. So, yes, I'm smack dab in the "troubled middle-child, Peter/Jan Brady syndrome, black sheep, gotta-be-independent" middle of them. We're almost equally divided by three years each. We get along pretty well...now. We've had our ups and downs, but now that we're adults, and there is nothing evil trying to ooze darkness over the relationship, we're all rather amicable. Which is good, considering some of the crap we used to pull on each other.

On Thanksgiving we were all together, and when that happens, we usually toss around the same stories about our youth, much to the chagrin of the wives who heard them all before. Like the one about when I squeezed my younger brother's nose hard while wrestling, and he wound up with a nice black and blue on the tip of it. I love that story. Or when I put a hot spatula on his arm because he was bothering me while I was making pancakes. Another knee-slapper. Then we sit around complaining about the crap on TV, or comparing bellies, or updating each other on the latest "mom" horror story.

I'm sure it wasn't easy for our parents to raise three boys. We weren't hellions by any stretch of the imagination, but we were still three boys. And we enjoyed torturing each other. Actually, we really enjoyed torturing the youngest...

I can remember Mike and I tying the "baby" of the family to the bed, using the belts from our robes. We'd tell him it was part of a game. Then we'd leave him and go about our business, until his screaming caught the attention of our mother. Sometimes, we would lock him in the cedar-lined bedding closet. We'd tell him that was part of a different game. Then we'd leave and go about our business, until his screaming caught the attention of our mother. We even wrapped him like a mummy in cloth bandages. Then left him. He couldn't scream that time. We bandaged his mouth too tight.

We were big wrestling fans as kids. Not that soap opera crap that goes on now. The real wrestling, with true athletes like Andre The Giant, Bruno Sammartino, Chief Jay Strongbow, and George "the Animal" Steele. Those guys were awesome. And we would do our best to imitate our heroes with major bouts that always turned into real fights. Whether someone kicked someone else a little too hard in the neck, or a punch landed unintentionally to the gut, the fake wrestling became three brothers pounding the crap out of each other. Until it caught the attention on our father. Once, I kneed Mike in the back really hard, and he actually threw me across the basement into our game shelves, which promptly collapsed on me. Good times. Of course, this was the same guy who beat the crap out of a punk from the neighborhood who hit me for no reason.

Once, Joe wanted to be Jimmy "Superfly" Snuka, and attempted a flying leap off the wrought iron railing in our living room. His chest landed squarely on my knee, knocking the wind out of him. Sure, he could have died. But he didn't. Which makes it much easier to laugh at the story. Especially if you were the one on the floor watching him fly at you off the railing. It's priceless stuff.

I believe that this is how we bonded. We worked out our aggressions on one another, then would make up. Until the next wrestling match. We could kick each other's ass, but would stand up for each other if anyone outside tried to push one of us around. I guess that's how brotherhood works.

Today, Joe is a psychologist. I suppose all those years being tied to the bed and wrapped like a mummy made him want to help others who suffered similar abuse. When he starts spewing some of his psycho-babble with us, we lock him in the closet until he shuts up. Since my dad died, Mike has really stepped up, taking on a lot of responsiblities, helping my mom with finances and house stuff. Believe me, I'm thankful for that. When we get together, we always laugh at the stupid stories, no matter how many times we tell them. Like the one where Joe was going to catch a beating from our father and he filled his pajama bottoms with books to soften the blows. As if my father wouldn't notice. Or the way Mike would come into our bedroom every night and cut some truly nasty butt gas. Every night. Like clockwork.

When I turned away from the family during my ill-fated second marriage, all it took was a phone call after it ended to have them back in my life. I'll never forget that. They were there for me in an instant, and they forgave any stupid crap I did or said in my possessed state. They even helped me move into my new place. I know I would do the same for them in a heartbeat. Despite being thrown into shelving as a kid. I guess that's also how brotherhood works.

Next time we're together, I think I'll challenge them to a wrestling match. I would love to see Joe trying to climb onto the wrought iron railing to do a "superfly." Better alert the emergency room.