The Brinker Boys WC 289

The Brinker Boys
WC 289

“I don't get it!”

“What's not to get? Mom always looks the other way when it comes to Jimmy.”

“But it's not fair, Donnie!”


Fast forward thirty years, Arnie and I are on the I-10. I'm driving; we are reminiscing.

“But that drug store thing wasn't fair, Don.”

“Was anything fair where Jimmy was concerned, Arnie?”

Arnie falls silent and gazes absently at the mountains.

Jimmy is our older brother. He was fifteen at the time we are talking about. He had stolen two packs of lucky strikes from our local drug store. He dropped one into Arnie's coat pocket and hurried out of the store with the other pack.

Old Lady Bukovich saw it happen and tattled, saying it was one of the Brinker boys. Since two of us were still in the store, we were the lead suspects. When the police searched Arnie, the Lucky Strikes were in his pocket. Because Arnie was eleven and I was twelve, the cops gave us a lecture on robbery (and smoking) as they drove us home. They released us to our mom and that was it. Of course, Mom grounded us for three weeks.

We never snitched.

We are on our way to Arizona to visit Jim. I haven't seen him in 10 years. It has been five or so for Arnie; he lives closer.

Perryville Prison looms on the horizon.

“There it is! Jimmy’s home for the last 27 years,” I say. “Mom must be rolling over in her grave.”

As we walk toward the guard, Arnie looks up at the heavens.

“Thanks, Mom, for being hard on Donnie and me!” he says, finally getting it.

As it turns out, these two Brinker boys ended up being the lucky ones.