Am I My Brother's Keeper?

My English teacher in my senior year of high school was a rather insistent Southern Baptist. In that keeping one’s nose firmly ensconced in other people’s business seems to be part and parcel to the ways of many insistent Southern Baptists, she constantly exhorted me to act as my brother’s keeper—literally.

One of my two younger brothers was, at the time, suffering a troubling bout of middle child syndrome. He seemed to be feeling like an outsider to the family, full of rage and defiance. He was, in fact, behaving like an outsider to civil society in some ways, which gave all proper, churchy people pause for considerable concern, horror and handwringing (my parents and me included).

My brother’s wayward path was, of course, my responsibility to remedy. I was the eldest of our brood. I was the utterly socialized shining example of All A High School Student Should Be—a virtual lap dummy medium through which Upstanding Adults of Our Community could voice their sacred values and ways like ventriloquists.

I did not realize that I was being used. I felt fully invested in their program at the time. I was all about pursuing Success In Life. I was in the National Honor Society. I was listed in Who’s Who Among America’s High School Students. I listened to Good Role Model adults as if they were oracles. I listened to Earl Nightingale tapes. I read Dale Carnegie and Napoleon Hill. I was a representative of The Good Youth — I was one who was asked to lead prayers and speak at church; to speak to the Rotary and the Lions Clubs. As such, it was incumbent upon me to help my brother See The Light.

With this intent I called my brother into the game room, away from the rest of the family. I sat him down and launched at him my best Inspirational Spiel — “You’re free to pursue your dreams…You can be anything you want to be; you can accomplish anything you want to accomplish…”

He appeared to be captured in a bit of reverie. After a point he uttered aloud what he made of what I was saying: “I can do anything I want to do…I can goddamn well do whatever I want to do!”

He stood up and sternly commanded: “Move your car. You’re parked behind me.” With that, he arose from the couch and moved decisively to the garage.

Reflexively I followed, still a bit intoxicated by the magic spell I’d cast on myself with my Success Spiel, not yet comprehending the nature of magic that my words had worked on my brother.

He got into his hot-rodded Mustang and gunned the engine. The camshaft clattered. The dual exhaust glass packs aggressively roared and crackled. He slammed his four-on-the-floor Hurst shifter into reverse and hit the accelerator. Tires screamed as they spun in place, filling the air with the acrid scent of burnt rubber, then they dug into the pavement like talons of a dragon. The Mustang lurched within inches of my front bumper.

“Move your goddamn car or I’ll move it for you!” he hissed, breathing the fire of his youthful discontent through the open car window.

At that moment my dad swooped into the garage, descending on the open window through which he attempted to pull my brother from the car. I stood agog, thinking, “This cannot be happening.” Before that thought was finished the door of the Mustang sprung wide open, sending my dad reeling backward, tumbling into the trash bags.

My brother escaped on foot, running into the night.