Rythmical Rants in the Anthills Upstairs

Your brother . . . Jeff

My brother left a message on my voicemail, which struck me as funny: "It's Jeff, . . . your brother," he began, as if I wouldn't necessarily know who "Jeff" is. My brother and I rarely communicate -- perhaps this will help to explain why: It was Thanksgiving and my disfunctional family was busy trying to produce something that resembled casual conversation in the lulls between making mixed vodka drinks minus the umbrella, when all of the sudden, my brother decided to brag about his outstanding selling talents by relaying the story of how he had convinced a homeless man to spend 800 dollars on a new suit (at the time, Jeff worked at a clothing store in the local shopping mall). He persuaded the poor soul to spend his life savings by telling him that the suit was an "investment" in his family's future (it's worse now that you know the guy had a family, isn't it?) -- a catalyst for securing the high-paying job that he so desperately needed. That's my brother. And as such, he of course later rose quickly to the top of his chosen occupation -- corporate and managerial in nature -- by stepping on the heads and shoulders of those morally correct saps around him in order to secure the corner office with the huge windows. Meanwhile, yours truely was busy being suspended for organizing high school sit-ins to protest "war for oil" and the use of plasticware in the cafeteria. My journey deposited me in a richly rewarding teaching job with very little pay in which I predominantly work with the disadvantaged. Now, you say, the division is clear. However, for some reason, everytime I hear that pause between Jeff and "your brother" on my voicemail (which is maybe every six months), I feel that painful lump forming in my throat -- Don't other siblings swap stories and chat about their lives weekly or even daily? It's not our fault though. My family has never been one for small talk. At the dinner table, my uncle used to pass me napkins on which he had scrawled word problems for me to solve -- you know, "Train A leaves the station at 6 o'clock and Train B . . . " No one ever thought studying English would lead to anything worth doing. Anyway, I have to call my brother . . . .Jeff back for our semi-annual conversation so that we can go back to the comfort of not talking again.