Brother

The towel, previously animated by my hands, now sits limply on the table that it just recently cleaned.
I sit at my newly cleaned and sparkling work surface, coffee in hand, prepared for some serious writing. I brace my fingers half a centimeter above the keyboard, and then the noise begins.

"Can you please turn the music down?"
"Make me."

The music comes from my brother's "Disco Playlist," a collection of music which features artists ranging from the BeeGee's to MC Hammer. "Disco" has been a favorite with him since his 13th birthday, which passed a few months ago, and closely followed an obsession with the song "Mellow Yellow," which reflected a calmer stage in his life, before teenagerhood set in.

Perhaps as a biological manifestation of his newfound love for bad 1970's trends, he's starting to grow a mustache now-- a fact which my sister and I have a difficult time accepting. for years prior to the birth of our two youngest siblings, H. had been the baby in the family. while my sister and i incessantly argued and pulled echother's hair, H. had been the coddled little brother, the "cute" one. though perhaps not always exempt from teasing, H. had been more of a pet than a sibling. we would dress him in the toddler-sized blazers that were put away for special occasions, then take pictures. we asked him questions, then recorded his adorably childish answers on a tape recorder, which we played back for friends and family.
we gave H. a lot of attention, and he often passed and perpetuated this time in the spotlight by telling jokes.
"Why did the toe cross the road?"
"Why?"
"To go to mcdonalds."
Riotous laughter ensued.
Today, such jokes have been replaced by popular works of comedic genius such as "that's what she said," as well a various imprompu remarks that leave me, my sister, and our parents thinking "I can't believe that you know what that means."

As a young child, H. had always been what many parents consider "well-behaved." His biggest crime (more of a mistake than an act of blatant disobedience) had been when, at the age of three, he climbed on to the open dishwasher door and used it as a diving board, snappinig the henges and forever damaging the machine. But with manhood encroaching, he now suffers frequent outbursts of moody defiancy. "Why me?" he utters at the request that he empty the dishewasher. He huffs and sighs as the action is performed, and we return later only to find that all of the forks have been deliberately placed in what is the clearly the spoon compartment.

As an infant, H. had long, dark hair and a frowning face. A family friend once commented that he looked like a stereotypical indian cheif, but this assessment may have more accurately described his 7-year-old self, who had shoulder-length black hair and a beaded leather necklace, complete with faux bones. This was how he looked the day his class sang "Ain't no mountain high enough" for a school talent show, and perhaps it is of this that he thinks while blaring disco music from the stereo, in some sort of desperate act of clinging to his quickly fading childhood.
"Please turn the music down, I'm trying to concentrate."
The volume increases, and the towel vibrates with the beat.