|
Recon
by Katrina Johnston My older brother, Bill, gets off work real late – after midnight. I'm supposed to have his 1:45 a.m. dinner completely ready so that Bill can just walk right in and inhale his supper. If not plated and perfectly served up, I'm supposed to have it sitting on the stove and simmering along by the time he drives from Surrey. But I'm not able to begin the prep this time. Usually, I pull-up a simple recipe online. I couldn't tonight because I've accidentally spilled a honking gigantic glass of Pepsi on the computer keyboard. The keys are are sticking in the depressed position. It's Bill's technology. I'm also supposed to rev up the blender to puree a bunch of tomatoes. I'm sitting here with a crazy hope that something will rescue me. Or my brother will morph into a pussy cat. Slim chance of that; I'm thinking on it. Bill lets me stay here rent free when I'm plugging through my university terms. I'm thinking about going down to the lobby tonight and sneaking out, avoiding him completely, except I don't know where I'd go. It's after 1 a.m., and he'd probably find me without much sweat. Hope he doesn't blow a gasket or hurt me either. When we were kids, I accidentally broke his model airplane. We we're horsing around with hockey sticks. He walloped my legs. I wore a series of ugly bruises that lasted for two weeks, big purple welts over my shins. He's not really mean; he didn't intend that injury. He wasn't mean when we were younger either, but sometimes he's just way too tough. Even now, Bill always gets extra fired-up when things don't go exactly to his liking. He doesn't know he's such a huge guy and he's never really aware how powerful. He celebrated his 29th last month, and I am 24. He weighs-in at 285. I'm a skinny blade compared; 180 even when I'm soaking wet. I'm quaking in my shoes. I'm thinking hard on what he might do to possibly avenge me for the keyboard. It's a very strange thing, but Bill won't tell me exactly where he works. I think it's a lounge or a night club and he's the bartender or some such. He works these odd night-time hours, but he's secretive. When I asked him last Tuesday, he said: “Mind your own GD business Gordon.” He used to play football, defensive end. Maybe he's joined some late-night sports team or an athletic club – I dunno? He brings in gobs and gobs of cash. It must be a lucrative gig? But first thing after he gets in... I mean, without even bothering to say hello to me, he heads for a shower. He's not particularly spiffy in his dress, so it's not likely a high-class joint he's coming from. He's usually an up-front sort of dude, fairly easy-going. Well, he's all social and funny when he wants to be and if he's not being a stupid sore-head complaining about me. He jokes with the neighbours here in the building. Especially with the retired couple who live in the penthouse suite on the sixteenth floor – the Graysons. Their kids are grown and independent. I think Bill rather admires and honours those older folks like they're his substitute grandparents or something. “Respect,” he says. “That's the way to go.” We live two floors down from the Graysons, right here in 1407. I guess Bill would like to be top floor. He acts like a big shot, like he's king of the world. This is a pretty expensive condo as it is right here. I'm grateful that he lets me stay. I've got two more years of pre engineering. But I earn it. I'm the chief cook and bottle washer and laundry-doer and grocery-shopper and.... When he finally gets in, I can see he's righteously upset. I don't mention his computer keyboard. I've ordered in a pizza, a plain one, like he prefers, and we'll make do. He doesn't seem to mind or at least he doesn't harp on it. And Bill sits down on the couch. He has this kind of sad look. He starts yakking like someone flipped a switch. Bill informs me that he's been working at The Blue Heron Nightclub. Not a bartender or a server. Oh No! My brother's a stripper. I nearly keeled over when he said that. He's a male stripper of all the crazy things! He wasn't overjoyed tonight when Mrs. Grayson came waltzing inside the club with a bunch of her grey-haired lady friends. And she recognized him right away and made a huge commotion, and gave him an $50.00 tip, tucked the money into.... Gross! But he had to keep on pretending to dance and smile in front of a club full of smirking women and a few gay dudes also. “It's self-respect,” he said. “I've totally lost it.” And he looked like a wet and sickly alley cat. So, I told him about the keyboard and he just kept wobbling his head and slapping the couch cushion until it was all puffed up. That pizza dinner, the plain one that I ordered and paid for and we shared while Bill spilled his guts to me was the best damn pizza that I've ever eaten. |
|
|
|
|
✕